POEMS  OF 
JOHN  R.  THOMPSON 


JOHN  R.  THOMPSON 

From  an  ambrotype  made  at  the  beginning  of  his  editorship  of 
The  Southern  Literary  Messenger 


POEMS   OF 
JOHN  R.  THOMPSON 

I.DITKD,   WITH   A   BIOGRAPHICAL   INTRODUCTION 

By  JOHN  S.  PATTON 

Librarian  of  the  University  of  Virginia 


UNIVERSITY   OF   VIRGINIA   EDITION 

[ALFRED  HENRY  BYRD  GIFT] 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1920 


vi  PREFACE 

garet  J.  Preston,  John  Pendleton  Kennedy,  Rufus  W.  Gris- 
wold,  Donald  G.  Mitchell,  and  many  others,  rich  in  per 
sonal  and  critical  information  which  has  been  freely  used  in 
the  biographical  part  of  this  volume.  A  valuable  supple 
ment  to  the  letters  to  Thompson  is  a  large  number  of  his 
own  letters,  found  in  the  unpublished  Griswold  Manuscripts 
in  the  Athenaeum  Library  in  Boston  and  in  the  inedited 
Kennedy  Papers  in  the  Library  of  the  Peabody  Institute,  Bal 
timore.  They  throw  a  flood  of  light  on  the  writer's  life  and 
the  literary  interests  of  the  period  just  before  the  Civil  War. 
This  book  owes  much  to  an  abiding  faith  in  the  value  of 
Thompson's  services  to  literature,  to  a  persistent  and  wide 
spread  interest  in  his  better  known  poems,  and  to  friend 
ships  due  to  his  personal  worth  and  attraction.  To  more 
persons  than  can  well  be  named  here  thanks  are  offered  for 
assiduous  and  sympathetic  assistance.  Miss  Carrie  Hill 
Davis  searched  the  libraries  and  other  archives  of  New  York 
and  left  no  Thompsoniana  undiscovered.  Colonel  W.  Gor 
don  McCabe  of  Richmond,  Thompson's  friend,  communicated 
his  memories  of  the  poet  and  his  work,  as  did  also  Mr.  Armi- 
stead  C.  Gordon  and  Mr.  R.  T.  W.  Duke,  Jr.  Mr.  J.  H. 
Whitty  lent  letters  and  manuscripts  from  his  large  collec 
tion,  and  Mrs.  Thomas  H.  Ellis  an  interesting  packet  of 
Thompson's  intimate  letters  to  her  father,  the  late  B.  John 
son  Barbour  of  Barboursville,  Va.  These  are  but  a  few  of 
those  who  lent  biographical  and  other  material  used  in  the 
preparation  of  this  volume.  Three  others  whose  contribu 
tion  was  in  the  form  of  needed  advice  and  assistance  are 
Professor  William  M.  Thornton,  Dr.  John  C.  Metcalf,  and 
Dr.  Philip  A.  Bruce,  who  have  followed  the  work  from  the 
beginning  until  its  delivery  to  the  publishers. 

J.  S.  P. 

THE  LIBRARY,  UNIVERSITY  OF  VIRGINIA, 
August,  1919. 


CONTENTS 

PREFACE v 

BIOGRAPHY      xi 

LEE  TO  THE  REAR.     (Crescent  Monthly,  New  Orleans)      ...  1 

THE  BURIAL  OF  LATAXK.    (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1862)  .  4 

ASHBY.     (Richmond  Whig,  June  13,  1862) 6 

GENERAL  J.  E.  B.  STUART.     (Richmond  Examiner,  May,  1864)  8 

THE  BATTLE  RAINBOW.   (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1862)    .  11 

Music  IN  CAMP 13 

ON  TO  RICHMOND.     (Richmond  Whig}      16 

OLD  ABE'S  MESSAGE  (July  4,  1861) i 21 

ENGLAND'S  NEUTRALITY.     (Southern  Illustrated  News,   Rich 
mond)  24 

THE  DEVIL'S  DELIGHT.     (The  Land  We  Love,  1867)  .....  30 

A  WORD  WITH  THE  WEST.    (Southern  Illustrated  News,  1862)  .  33 

COERCION.     (Charleston  Mercury,  1861)* 36 

UNITED  STATES  DISTRICT  COURT,  DISTRICT  No.  1,  UNDERWOOD, 

J.  (The  Land  We  Love,  1*67) 39 

WILLIAM  H.  SEWARD 40 

A  FAREWELL  TO  POPE.     (Southern  Illustrated  News)     ....  43 

RICHMOND'S  A  HARD  ROAD  TO  TRAVEL.     (Southern  Illustrated 

News) 45 

VIRGINIA  Furr.     (The  Old  Guard,  New  York,  1867) 49 

THE  GREEK  SLAVE,  OF  POWERS.    (Southern  Literary  Messenger, 

1847) 51 

DEDICATION  HYMN.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1848)     .    .  54 

LA  MORGUE.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1848) 55 

To  Miss  AMELIE  LOUISE  RIVES.  (New  York  Home  Journal,  1849)  59 

PHILIP    PENDLETON    COOKE.     (Southern    Literary    Messenger, 

1856) 60 

*  Appeared  also  in  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger. 
vii 


viii  CONTENTS 


PAGE 


PROPOSED  SALE  OF  THE  NATURAL  BRIDGE.     (Southern  Literary 

Messenger,  1849) 61 

To  INTEMPERANCE.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1850)     .    .  63 

To   MRS.  S.  P.  Q....,  ON  HER  MARRIAGE.     (Knickerbocker 

Magazine,  1850) 65 

A    DIRGE   [FOR  THE    FUNERAL  SOLEMNITIES  FOR  ZACHARY 

TAYLOR].     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1850) 67 

INVOCATION.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1850) 68 

To  JENNY  HERSELF.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1850)  .    .  70 

JENNY  LIND.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1851) 71 

A  RETROSPECT  OF  1849.     (The  Literary  World,  1850)*     ...  73 

SONNETS  TO  WINTER.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1851)     .  76 
I.    OLD  WINE  TO  DRINK 
II.    OLD  WOOD  TO  BURN 

III.  OLD  BOOKS  TO  READ 

IV.  OLD  FRIENDS  TO  LOVE 

THE  WINDOW-PANES  AT  BRANDON.     (Southern  Literary  Mes 
senger,  1851) 79 

To  BULWER.     (The  Literary  World,  1851)*      81 

To  ONE  IN  AFFLICTION.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1851)  82 

VIOLANTE.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1852) 84 

To  (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1852) 86 

BENEDICITE.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1852) 87 

UNWRITTEN  Music.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1852)    .    .  88 

WEBSTER.    October  24,  1852.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger, 

1852) * 90 

A  LETTER.     (Manuscript) 92 

"BRIGHTLY,  WITH  THE  ELFIN  TRAIN  ATTENDED."     (Southern 

Literary  Messenger,  1853) 96 

L'ENVOI.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1851) 98 

THE  BRAVE.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1853) 99 

AUTUMN  LINES.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1853)   ....  100 
*  Appeared  also  in  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger. 


CONTENTS  ix 

PAGE 

THE  EXILE'S  SUNSET  SONG.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger, 

1853) 103 

"An!    FUTILE    THE    HOPE."     (Southern    Literary   Messenger, 

1853) 106 

MY  MURRAY.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1857) 108 

THE  RHINE.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1854) 110 

A  SOUVENIR  OF  ZURICH.     ("Across  the  Atlantic,"  1855)     .    .  112 

THE  POSTILION  OF  LINZ.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1855)  114 

LINDEN.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1855) 116 

A  PICTURE.     (Duyckinck's  Cyclopaedia  of  American  Literature, 

1855) 118 

A  LEGEND  OF  BARBER-Y.     (Undated  Manuscript) 119 

IN  FORMA  PAUPERIS.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1855)      .  122 

PATRIOTISM.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1855)      124 

VIRGINIA.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1856) 136 

To  PAUL  H.  HAYNE.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1857)   .    .  145 

THE    JAMESTOWN    CELEBRATION,    1857.     (Southern    Literary 

Messenger,  1857) 146 

Lou.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1858) »    .  153 

WASHINGTON.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1858) 155 

SONG.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1858) 165 

THE  OLD  DOMINION  JULEP  BOWL.     (Southern  Literary  Mes 
senger,  1858) 166 

"MAY-DAY."     (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1858) 169 

ROBERT  BURNS.     (Baltimore  American,  January  25,  1859)    .    .  172 

HEXAMETERS  AT  JAMESTOWN.     (Harper  s  Magazine,  1859)      .  175 

THE  MOTTO.     (Undated  Manuscript) 179 

To  E.  V.  V.,   1859 180 

"VIRGINIA,   IN  OUR  FLOWING   BOWLS."     (Southern  Literary 

Messenger,  1860) 181 

POESY:   AN  ESSAY  IN  RHYME.     (Southern  Literary  Messenger, 

1859) 185 

"  SING,  TENNYSON,  SING  ! "    (Southern  Literary  Messenger,  1859)  196 


x  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

"ONCE  MORE  THE  ALUMNI."     (Written  in  1860)      197 

MISERRIMUS.     (Harper  s  Weekly,  1868) 202 

GEORGE  WYTHE  RANDOLPH.     (The  Southern  Amaranth,  1869)  206 

UNIVERSITY  OF  VIRGINIA.     (Written  in  1869) 209 

THE  BARBER  BOY.     (Manuscript,  dated  November,  1844)  .    .  218 
TRANSLATIONS  : 

CARCASSONNE — Nadaud.     (LippincotCs  Magazine,  1872)   .  219 

THE  GARRET — Beranger 221 

WHERE ?— Heine.     (The  Galaxy,  1872)      223 

THE  KING  OF  TIPSY-LAND — Beranger.     (Southern  Literary 

Messenger,  1849) 224 

COLLEGE  VERSES: 

AUTUMN 227 

VERSES  OF  A  COLLEGIATE  HISTORIAN      228 

THE  INEBRIATE 228 

DESPONDENCY 229 

RETROSPECTION      230 

LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WILLIAM  HENRY  HARRISON    .  230 

THE  HOUR  OF  SEPARATION 231 

FUGITIVE  THOMPSONIANA  : 

THE  STOWE  EPIGRAM 232 

POMPONNETTE 233 

ROGER  BONTEMPS 233 

BERANGER  AND  LAMARTINE 234 

To  FANNY 235 

THE  SOUTHERN  LYRE 235 

NOTES 237 

INDEX  OF  POEMS 245 

INDEX  (GENERAL) 247 


BIOGRAPHY 


GETTING   READY 

JOHN  R.  THOMPSON,  poet,  editor  and  critic,  was  born  Oc 
tober  23,  1823,  the  son  of  John  Thompson,  a  native  of  New 
Hampshire.  His  mother  was  Sarah  Dyckman  of  New  York, 
a  descendant  of  Jan  Dyckman  who  came  to  New  Amster 
dam  from  Benheim,  Westphalia,  about  1660,  settled  in 
Harlem,  and  established  the  ancestral  home  of  the  family 
<>M  a  site  overlooking  the  old  Bloomingdale  Road.  What 
remained  of  the  large  estate  after  frequent  divisions — the 
house  built  about  1783  to  take  the  place  of  the  original 
structure  which  the  British  had  burned,  and  four  lots — at 
what  is  now  Broadway  and  204th  Street,  was  presented  to 
the  city  of  New  York  in  1916,  and  is  known  as  the  Dyck- 
inan  House,  Park  and  Museum.  The  house  is  in  a  da  — 
all  its  own,  being  the  only  farm-house  on  Manhattan  Island. 
With  its  broad  gambrel  roof,  solid  stone  walls,  large  Dutch 
ovens  in  the  kitchen,  and  narrow  porch,  it  exemplifies  the 
architectural  modes  of  early  New  York. 

Thompson  was  born  probably  at  the  corner  of  Fourteenth 
and  Main  Streets  in  Richmond,  Va.,  in  the  mo<Ie>t  home 
over  his  father's  store,  where  the  family  lived  in  the  twen 
ties.  If  not  there,  then  in  a  house  on  Franklin,  between 
Fourteenth  and  Fifteenth.  The  next  home  of  the  Thomp 
sons  was  in  Mayo  Street,  where  John  Thompson  acquired  a 
lot  in  1839  and  built  two  houses,  one  of  which  (No.  108)  In- 
occupied,  while  Mrs.  Quarles,  the  poet's  sister,  lived  in  the 


,;A-.- 

xii  BIOGRAPHY 

other  (No.  106).  Thence  the  family  went  to  a  house  in 
Franklin  between  Eighth  and  Ninth  in  1858,  and  soon 
after,  to  802  East  Leigh  Street,  where  the  poet,  in  a  third- 
story  front  room,  wrote  nearly  all  the  war  poems  on  which 
his  fame  is  securely  based. 

His  first  experience  of  educational  discipline  was  at  a 
school  in  Richmond — on  Broad  Street  between  Ninth  and 
Tenth — of  which  Hawkesworth  and  Wright  were  masters. 
No  echo  of  "the  sensitive,  reserved  boy"  has  come  from 
school-room  or  play-ground.  In  1836,  in  his  thirteenth 
year,  he  was  sent  to  Roger's  preparatory  school  at  East 
Haven,  Conn.,  and  remained  eleven  months.  One  of  his 
sisters,  Sarah  M.Thompson  (afterwards  Mrs.  R.  S.  Massie), 
was  at  a  girls'  school  at  East  Haven  at  the  same  time;  the 
other,  Susan  P.  Thompson  (Mrs.  H.  W.  Quarles),  being  in 
frail  health,  was  kept  in  Richmond  at  Miss  McKenzie's 
school,  in  which  Rosalie  Poe,  sister  of  the  poet,  was  a  teacher. 
His  parents,  being  of  Northern  birth,  had,  no  doubt,  con 
nections  which  strongly  inclined  them  to  the  East  Haven 
schools.  There  the  future  poet  wrote  his  first  poem  (To 
Fanny} ,  a  tribute  to  Mrs.  William  Munford.  In  1840  he 
left  his  Mayo  Street  home  and  travelled  by  the  James  River 
and  Kanawha  Canal  to  Columbia,  in  Fluvanna  County, 
and  thence  by  carriage  to  Charlottesville,  where  he  entered 
the  University  of  Virginia  at  the  beginning  of  his  eighteenth 
year  and  the  University's  seventeenth  session.  He  was 
"free  to  attend  the  schools  of  his  choice,  and  no  other"  than 
he  chose,  the  simple  condition  being  that  he  should  "at 
tend  at  least  three  professors." 

Thompson  "took"  ancient  languages,  under  Gessner 
Harrison,  natural  philosophy  under  William  Barton  Rogers, 
and  mathematics  under  J.  J.  Sylvester,  during  the  session 
of  1840-41;  the  following  session,  modern  languages  under 
Charles  Kraitsir,  chemistry  under  John  P,  Emmet,  and 


BIOGRAPHY  xiii 

mathematics  under  Pike  Powers.  The  names  of  all  his 
professors  are  written  large  in  the  history  of  education. 
Dr.  Harrison,  at  the  age  of  twenty-one,  was  strongly  recom 
mended  by  George  Long,  the  first  professor  of  ancient  lan 
guages  in  the  University  of  Virginia,  as  his  successor,  when 
he  resigned  and  returned  to  England.  Praise  from  Long 
was  praise  indeed,  for  this  graduate  of  Cambridge  who,  at 
the  summons  of  Thomas  Jefferson,  came  to  Virginia  to 
inaugurate  the  University,  lived  to  become  the  recognized 
nestor  of  classical  scholarship  in  England.  The  young 
Virginian  abundantly  justified  Long's  faith  in  him.  Pro 
fessor  Rogers  made  the  first  geological  survey  of  Virginia 
and  afterwards  founded  the  Massachusetts  Institute  of 
Technology.  Professor  Sylvester  was  the  first  incumbent 
of  the  chair  of  mathematics  in  Johns  Hopkins  University, 
and  was  afterwards  Savilean  Professor  of  Geometry  at  Ox 
ford. 

The  selection  of  his  "tickets"  (as  subjects  or  studies  were 
called  in  that  day)  seems  to  point  to  designs  on  the  degree 
of  master  of  arts,  the  only  non-professional  degree  then 
conferred  by  the  University. 

In  the  University  were  two  societies  organized  for  "de 
bate  and  literary  improvement."  They  exist  today:  The 
Jefferson,  founded  in  the  first  session  (1825),  and  the  Wash 
ington,  dating  from  the  eleventh  (1835-36).  Thompson 
joined  the  former.  It  is  not  known  whether  the  fact  that 
Poe  had  been  a  member  of  it  influenced  him,  or  why  he  was 
not  on  its  roll  the  following  session.  The  coveted  honors 
of  the  society  were  the  anniversary  and  the  "final,"  or 
commencement,  oratorships,  and  the  final  presidency. 
Thompson  won  none  of  these.  Probably  amateur  debate 
and  oratory  did  not  win  his  liking  or  interest,  and  likely  he 
had  little  skill  in  either  at  that  time.  In  after  years  he  oc 
casionally  appeared  as  a  lecturer,  "and  always  with  sue- 


BIOGRAPHY 

cess,"  according  to  the  testimony  of  a  competent  contem 
porary  critic.  The  pen,  and  not  the  platform,  was  his  means 
of  expression.  An  opportunity  was  at  hand.  The  students 
published  a  magazine — The  Collegian — to  which  he  con 
tributed  verse,  and  perhaps  prose.  The  editors  during 
his  first  year  at  the  University  were  Lewis  M.  Ayer  of  South 
Carolina,  John  S.  Caskie  of  Richmond,  later  a  member  of 
Congress,  John  L.  Marye  of  Fredericksburg,  lieutenant 
governor  of  Virginia,  Francis  R.  Rives  of  Albemarle,  secre 
tary  of  legation,  London,  and  Robert  E.  Withers  of  Camp 
bell,  United  States  Senator  and  long  time  leader  in  Vir 
ginia.  The  poems  in  The  Collegian  identified  as  his  are: 
Autumn,  The  Inebriate,  The  Hour  of  Separation,  Despon 
dency,  Retrospection,  and  Lines  on  the  Death  of  General  Harri 
son.  The  Hour  of  Separation  was  a  vale  to  his  class-mates. 

There  were  many  students  to  whom  it  was  not  necessary 
to  say  farewell  in  a  serious  way,  as  they  were  from  his  home 
town,  Richmond,  and  from  counties  nearby.  They  main 
tained  contact  with  him  after  college  days.  In  Richmond 
were  Judge  John  S.  Caskie,  Richard  M.  Heath,  Dr.  William 
P.  Palmer,  whose  kindred  tastes  led  to  a  very  intimate  friend 
ship,  H.  Coalter  Cabell,  and  Colonel  William  P.  Munford; 
in  Carolina,  Captain  Sam  Schooler  and  Judge  Richard  H. 
Coleman,  of  -whom  he  used  to  tell  innumerable  conies  assez 
droles;  in  Charlotte,  Judge  Hunter  Marshall;  in  Goochland, 
Colonel  Julian  Harrison;  in  Essex,  Muscoe  R.  H.  Garnett, 
who  represented  his  district  in  the  Congress  of  the  United 
States  and  later  in  that  of  the  Confederate  States;  in  Peters 
burg,  Roscoe  B.  Heath,  an  adjutant  in  the  Confederate 
service;  in  Albemarle,  William  C.  Rives,  Jr.;  in  Charlottes- 
ville,  James  C.  Southall,  afterwards  of  Richmond,  where  he 
edited  The  Examiner  and  The  Enquirer;  at  the  University 
of  Virginia,  Henry  St.  George  Tucker,  known  as  "Saint"; 
in  Fredericksburg,  John  L.  Marye;  and  in  Norfolk,  Pow- 


BIOGRAPHY  xv 

hatan  Starke,  the  witty  physician.  These  and  other  friends 
of  his  college  years  became  men  of  mark,  and  to  many  of 
them  the  State  owed  much. 

When  Thompson  returned  to  Richmond  at  the  end  of  his 
second  and  last  academic  session,  he  seems  to  have  decided 
on  law  as  his  profession.  At  any  rate,  he  entered  the  la\\ 
office  of  James  A.  Seddon,  who,  although  not  yet  thirty. 
was  a  leader  of  the  Richmond  bar,  and  continued  with  him 
two  years.  In  1844,  he  returned  to  the  University  and  at 
the  following  commencement,  in  June,  1845,  received,  as 
he  wrote  to  Duyckinck,  "the  degree  of  Bachelor  of  Laws 
at  the  hands  of  the  late  Honorable  Henry  St.  George  Tucker. 
then  professor  of  law  in  that  institution."  By  this  time  Mr. 
Seddon  had  entered  politics,  and  was  soon  elected  to  Con 
gress.  If  Thompson  had  intended  re-entering  his  office  as 
a  partner  or  in  any  other  capacity,  Mr.  Seddon 's  absence 
from  Richmond  would  probably  have  interfered. 

In  after  years  Thompson  occasionally  visited  the  Uni 
versity.  Two  pictures,  in  "flowing  numbers,"  preserve 
some  of  his  memories  and  disclose  something  of  the  serene 
dignity  combined  with  persevering  solicitude  with  which 
Alma  Mater  follows  the  career  of  her  children.  The  first  of 
these — achieving  in  poetry  a  genial  counterfeit  of  pro 
fessors  and  students  of  his  day  somewhat  in  the  spirit  of  the 
"Charles  Dickens  and  His  Friends"  group  from  the  brush 
of  Maclise — was  made  for  the  alumni  dinner,  July  4,  1800. 
The  ode*  was  composed  in  Augusta,  Ga.,  whither  Thomp 
son  went  in  May,  1860,  to  edit  The  Southern  Field  and  Fire 
side. 

The  other,  and  later,  University  poem  was  for  an  event 
which  the  president  of  the  Alumni  Association,  the  Honor 
able  A.  H.  H.  Stuart  of  Staunton  described  as  of  more  than 

*  Page  197. 


xvi  BIOGRAPHY 

ordinary  interest.  In  his  invitation  to  the  poet  he  said: 
"Mr.  Connor  of  New  York  has  consented  to  deliver  the  ad 
dress  to  the  literary  societies,  and  Mr.  W.  C.  Rives  of  Bos 
ton  will  speak  to  the  alumni.  To  complete  the  circle  of 
intellectual  entertainment  a  strong  desire  has  been  expressed 
that  you  should  recite  a  poem  appropriate  to  the  occasion 
— such  a  poem  as  we  know  you  can  prepare  when  your 
heart  is  engaged  in  the  service."  In  compliance  with  the 
wish  thus  expressed  Mr.  Thompson,  at  the  meeting  of  the 
alumni  on  July  1,  1869,  read  the  noble  ode  beginning — 

Here  at  the  well -remembered  gates 
Through  which  we  entered  Learning's  fane.* 

Of  the  poets  educated  at  the  University  of  Virginia  Poe  is 
ranked  first,  as  in  some  respects  he  outranks  any  poet  edu 
cated  in  America,  By  general  consent  Thompson  was 
given  the  second  place  at  the  time  of  his  death.  He  prob 
ably  holds  that  position  still,  although  closely  pressed  by 
later  singers  of  true  inspiration  and  lyric  power,  among 
them  Lucas  and  the  Gordons.  His  portrait  by  Mrs.  An 
drews  is  among  those  of  "the  mighty  ones"  at  his  alma 
mater,  where, — as  he  wrote  reminiscently  of  his  student 
days, — it  seemed  to  him: 

Then  life  was  but  a  reeling  sense 
Of  something  like  omnipotence. 

*  Page  209. 


BIOGRAPHY  xvii 


GETTING    STARTED 

Obedient  to  the  wish  of  others  rather  than  to  his  own  in 
clination,  he  fitted  up  an  office  over  his  father's  store  at  tin- 
corner  of  Fourteenth  and  Main  Streets  and  offered  his 
services  to  any  who  needed  a  lawyer.  After  two  years  in 
the  profession,  for  which  he  seems  never  to  have  cared,  he 
turned  to  literature,  his  real  vocation,  and  remained  its  dev 
otee  to  the  end. 

Eighteen  years  measure  with  reasonable  exactness  his 
adult  life  in  his  native  city;  stretching,  with  but  two  inter 
ruptions,  from  1845  to  1864,  from  the  Richmond  of  prosper 
ous  enterprises,  of  old-fashioned  methods  and  ideals,  of 
social  institutions  which  had  evolved  under  the  influence  of 
a  society  mindful  of  dignity  and  reserve  as  well  as  of  more 
democratic  virtues,  to  the  Richmond  become  the  Confeder 
ate  capital,  familiar  with  the  destructive  hardships  of  war. 

In  1845  only  astute  students  of  popular  currents  predicted 
that  "a  storm  was  coming  though  the  winds  were  still." 
There  were  many  such  prophets,  but  the  young  law  gradu 
ate  was  not  one  of  them.  He  looked  forward  to  nothing 
more  tragic  than  occasional  encounters  in  legal  forums. 
That  dreams  of  literature  and  society  were  with  him  more 
persistently  than  thoughts  of  plaintiff  and  defendant  will 
not  excite  the  wonder  of  those  who  are  well  enough  informed 
to  disregard  the  ignorance  almost  amounting  to  sectional 
arrogance  which  was  blind  to  anything  like  intellectual  com 
petency  in  the  South  and  denied  to  Virginia  any  but  a 
negligible  dignity  as  a  contributor  to  the  literature  then 
making  in  the  United  States.  There  were  writers  who 
richly  merited  esteem.  The  romancer  was  diligently  cast 
ing  his  spell.  The  pages  of  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger 


xviii  BIOGRAPHY 

bear  witness  to  the  fact,  and  the  novels  of  John  Esten  Cooke 
prove  it,  for  Cooke  was  the  Sir  Walter  Scott  of  Virginia,  re 
producing  the  elder  society  of  the  ancient  commonwealth  in 
pictures  full  of  charm.  Contemporary  anthologies  neglected 
the  Virginia  poets,  though  there  were  singers  indubitably, 
and  good  ones;  and  overlooked  the  achievements  of  our 
dramatists,  essayists,  humorists,  historians,  because,  un 
willing  to  look  at  all,  they  were  ignorant  of  what  the  men 
and  women  of  genius  had  done  under  the  Southern  Cross. 
To  this  ignorance  there  is  more  than  one  incidental  refer 
ence  in  the  important  Cambridge  History  of  American 
Literature,  in  which  Southern  writers  of  that  period  are 
treated  with  insight  and  fairness. 

There  was  one  thing  which  was  not  ignored.  The  pres 
ence  in  Richmond  of  a  society  of  unsurpassed  worth  and 
fascination  has  been  always  and  everywhere  conceded.  No 
salon  was  there,  as  no  need  existed  in  the  South  for  the  kind 
of  leadership  and  opportunity  for  social  expression  that  the 
salon  alone  provided  for  intellectual  France.  Social  clans 
existed  in  an  unconscious  unity  and  cooperation  which  made 
up  a  social  order  of  the  fit  and  qualified,  the  members  of 
which  were  well  defined  by  their  servants  as  "the  qual 
ity."  A  list  of  "those  present"  at  one  of  the  ante-bellum 
receptions  or  drawing-rooms  republished  from  the  society 
columns  of  the  day  would  contain  the  names  of  men  and 
women  whose  families  had  won  and  honored  a  permanent 
place  in  the  annals  of  the  State.  Society,  with  all  its  real 
and  imagined  sins  upon  it,  added  lustre  to  the  Common 
wealth,  and  in  the  dark  days  of  1864-65,  when  hope  had 
waned,  saved  the  people  from  despair.  Its  spirit  and  ser 
vice  should  never  be  forgotten  and  cannot  be  over-lauded. 

The  atmosphere  of  society  was  necessary  to  Thompson, 
and  was  familiar  to  him  in  Richmond,  as  it  became  years 
afterwards  in  London  and  Paris.  His  special  friends  were 


BIOGRAPHY  xix 

the  Pegrams,  Stanards,  Cabells,  Rutherfords,  Munfords, 
Andersons,  Morsons,  and  others  of  that  type.  He  was 
well-fitted  for  it  by  his  ingratiating  good  nature  and  charm 
of  manner,  and  was  recommended  by  his  wit,  humor,  and 
indeed  by  his  literary  achievements,  for  he  had  returned 
from  the  University  a  humanist  of  some  mark  and  a  poet 
famous  on  its  campus.  He  quickly  became  the  poet  lau 
reate  of  his  city  and  its  minstrel  in  every  hall  of  mirth  and 
banqueting  where  the  acclaimed  and  the  great  sat  with 
"knife  in  meat  and  wine  in  horn."  He  was  the  poet  chosen 
to  voice  their  emotions  when  Webster  came,  when  G.  P.  R. 
James  departed,  the  Prince  of  Wales  visited,  and  the  Wash 
ington  Monument  was  unveiled. 

Thompson  benefited  much  intellectually  by  this  side  of 
Richmond  life,  but  he  gave  as  much,  perhaps,  as  he  received, 
if  the  effective  friendship  of  Mrs.  Stanard  does  not  pull  the 
balance  down  against  him.  She  admired  his  literary  ac 
complishments,  and  in  a  measure  was  his  Egeria,  as  she 
herself  was  a  woman  of  brilliant  intellect  whose  keen  yet 
sympathetic  criticism  he  constantly  sought.  Her  home — 
now  the  Westmoreland  Club — was  a  social  and  intellectual 
centre,  and  during  the  Civil  War  it  was  perhaps  the  near 
est  approach  to  the  French  salon  on  this  side  the  water. 
The  President  and  Mrs.  Davis,  cabinet  officers  and  their 
wives,  senators  and  representatives,  judges,  famous  gen 
erals — the  elite  of  the  whole  South — constantly  thronged 
her  drawing-rooms.  Her  manners  were  gracious  and  cor 
dial  and  her  tact  the  exquisite  tact  of  a  generous,  loving 
heart.  During  her  beneficent  reign  Richmond  changed 
greatly.  In  the  beginning  it  was  placid  and  unconsciously 
happy,  except  when  a  political  convention  or  a  partisan 
campaign  stirred  the  politicians,  or  a  duel  due  to  a  caustic 
editorial  or  a  vitriolic  philippic  ended  in  the  mortal  wound 
ing  of  a  Pleasants,  and  set  the  streets  agog  before  breakfast; 


xx  BIOGRAPHY 

but  finally  it  was  grimly  facing  war,  hearing  the  tumult  of 
battle,  or,  in  quieter  moments  of  hunger  and  suffering, 
greeting  Confederate  officers  and  soldiers  in  the  streets  with 
brave,  unbetraying  faces  or  entertaining  them  with  un- 
diminished  esprit  at  starvation  parties  where  they  could 
dance  even  if  there  was  nothing  to  eat. 

It  was  in  the  beginning  of  this  momentous  decade  and  a 
half  that  Thompson  bought  The  Southern  Literary  Mes 
senger.  Specifically,  it  was  in  October,  1847,  and  the  No 
vember  number  was  the  first  issued  under  his  editorship. 
The  Messenger  was  then  thirteen  years  old.  It  was  the 
literary  child  of  Thomas  W.  White,  and  was  born  in  August, 
1834,  in  his  job  printing  office  over  Anchor's  shoe  store, 
opposite  the  old  Bell  Tavern,  at  the  corner  of  Fifteenth  and 
Main  Streets.  Fenimore  Cooper,  Washington  Irving,  John 
Pendleton  Kennedy,  John  Quincy  Adams  and  others  on  the 
literary  crest  of  the  time  augured  a  distinguished  and  use 
ful  future  for  The  Messenger. 

Five  editors  preceded  Thompson:  James  E.  Heath, 
1834-35,  who  followed  literature  as  an  intellectual  interest 
and  not  as  a  calling;  E.  V.  Sparhawk,  1835-36,  with  whom 
editing,  for  which  he  seems  to  have  been  well-equipped,  was 
something  of  a  "side  line";  Poe,  1836-37;  Matthew  Fon 
taine  Maury,  "pathfinder  of  the  seas,"  and  some  unrecorded 
incumbents,  1837-43,  and  Benjamin  B.  Minor,  1843-47,  from 
whom  Thompson  acquired  the  magazine. 

In  the  meantime  The  Messenger  had  moved  twice.  It  was 
probably  the  year  before  he  died  that  Mr.  White  transferred 
it  from  its  birth-place  to  the  Museum  Building  on  the  south 
east  corner  of  Capitol  Square,  where  Franklin  Street  runs 
up  to  it.  The  Museum  was  a  large  structure  of  two  stories, 
with  two  long  rectangular  rooms  and  smaller  ones  in  front 
on  each  floor.  The  first  floor  and  a  large  upper  room  were 
the  home  of  The  Richmond  Whig,  edited  by  John  Hampden 


BIOGRAPHY  xxi 

Pleasants  and  Alexander  H.  Moseley,  and  the  remainder  of 
the  second  floor  that  of  The  Messenger.  The  legislature  de 
creed  the  demolition  of  the  Museum  Building,  and  Mr. 
Minor  purchased  a  lot  nearby,  in  Capitol  Square,  facing  on 
Franklin  Street,  and  erected  there  the  future  home  of  his 
magazine,  and  named  it  the  Law  Building.  Here,  on  the 
second  floor,  with  an  eastern  outlook,  was  the  editor's  sanc 
tum,  and  on  the  third  and  fourth,  the  printing,  binding,  and 
mailing  rooms. 

William  Macfarlane  and  John  W.  Fergusson  were  in  in 
timate  contact  with  The  Messenger  from  its  birth  to  its 
demise,  in  1864.  Macfarlane  was  White's  foreman  when 
the  first  number  was  printed  and  bound  hi  August,  1834, 
and  Fergusson  was  an  apprentice  hi  his  service.  They  were 
with  the  founder  when  he  died,  and  continued  with  Pro 
fessor  Minor  as  employees,  until  they  bought  his  printing 
outfit  and  became  his  publishers  and  one  of  his  tenants. 
To  Mr.  Thompson  they  bore  the  relation  of  publishers  until 
January,  1853,  when  he  made  an  arrangement  by  which  his 
publishers  became  the  proprietors  of  The  Messenger*  and  he 
their  editor.* 

Thompson  was  twenty-four  when  he  purchased  The  Mes 
senger  under  the  delusion  that  he  could  be  both  lawyer  and 
editor  of  an  important  magazine  at  the  same  time.  "It  is 
not  my  intention,"  he  promised  the  public,  "to  abandon  my 
profession,  but  to  continue  as  heretofore  a  practitioner  of 
the  law."  It  could  not  be  done,  certainly  it  was  not  done, 
for  Thompson  probably  never  again  entered  a  court-room  as 
an  attorney. 

The  Messenger  was  closing  its  thirteenth  year.  It  seemed 
to  Thompson  that  it  had  been  the  representative  of  South 
ern  taste  and  the  medium  of  Southern  feeling  and  opinion, 

*  Minor,  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  17G. 


xxii  BIOGRAPHY 

calling  into  use  gifts  which  otherwise,  in  the  easy-going  life 
of  the  people  that  insured  its  existence,  would  have  made 
no  contribution  whatever.  Silent  lotus-eaters  became  vocal. 
The  Southern  reading  world  was  aroused,  amused,  instructed. 
The  young  editor  planned  to  keep  it  so.  Intensely  South 
ern,  the  magazine  should,  however,  never  be  partisan  in  the 
sense  of  "arraying  one  portion  of  the  Union  against  the 
other" — already  there  were  just  two  sections! — it  was 
North  and  South  in  the  United  States,  as  around  the  world 
in  history.  "Its  province  shall  be,"  he  announced,  "to  re 
gard  the  Republic  of  Letters  as  an  indissoluble  confederacy, 
recognizing  no  landmarks  or  barriers  of  division,  but  united 
together  as  a  literary  brotherhood  by  sympathies  of  a  kin 
dred  nature  and  a  community  of  taste,  sentiments  and 
pursuits." 

Thompson  was  the 'kind  of  man  to  knit  close  and  strong 
attachments.  He  made  friends  wherever  he  went,  and 
kept  them.  His  manners  were  easy  and  ingratiating,  his 
dress  in  good  taste,  his  blue  eyes  steady,  engaging  and  of 
"friendly"  expression.  His  qualities  of  mind  and  heart 
enabled  him  to  add  materially  to  the  previous  record  of  The 
Messenger  in  discovering  and  encouraging  young  writers. 
It  was  in  his  magazine  that  Philip  Pendleton  Cooke's  name 
became  famous  and  linked  forever  with  that  of  Florence 
Vane;  that  his  young  brother,  John  Esten  Cooke,  displayed 
his  genius  for  story-telling;  that  Susan  Archer  Talley,  Poe's 
girl  friend,  was  permitted  to  find  her  public  and  sing  to  it 
in  a  voice  worthy  to  be  heard  with  Cooke's;  that  James 
Barron  Hope  had  the  apprenticeship  to  the  lyre  that  ended 
in  something  very  like  the  title  of  laureate  of  Virginia;  that 
Margaret  Preston,  born  in  Pennsylvania  but  made  in  Vir 
ginia,  if  poets  are  ever  made,  won  fame  with  both  prose  and 
poetry;  and  that  George  W.  Bagby,  who  afterwards  raised 
his  pseudonym  Mozis  Add  urns  to  the  power  of  a  synonym 


HKMJHAl'HY  xxiii 

for  sjH)iitaiiCH)iis  liiunor  racy  of  the  soil  of  Virginia,  was  first 
iiivrii  recognition.  Hayne  the  exquisite  sonneteer  and  Tim- 
rod  the  maker  of  beautiful  lyrics  found  their  way  into  liter 
ature,  and  the  verses  of  the  younger  Legare  went  forth  to 
the  Southern  world,  by  way  of  the  pages  of  The  Messenger, 
as  did  romance  and  poem  from  the  pen  of  the  veteran  Wil 
liam  Gilmore  Simms.  It  was  Thompson  who  first  gave  a 
hearing  to  Donald  G.  Mitchell  (Ik  Marvel),  whose  Reveries 
of  a  Bachelor  had  been  the  rounds  of  the  editors  and  elicited 
only  rejection  slips  until  the  Richmonder  welcomed  the 
classic;  and  it  was  he  who  was  the  first  to  discern  the  genius 
of  the  whimsical  Frank  R.  Stockton.* 

To  the  list  of  those  who  at  one  time  or  another  were  glad 
to  be  included  among  The  Messenger's  contributors  can  be 
added  the  names  of  G.  P.  R.  James,  Thomas  Dunn  English, 
Park  Benjamin,  Henry  T.  Tuckerman,  Thomas  Bailey  Al- 
drich,  John  Pendleton  Kennedy,  Henry  A.  Washington, 
Moncure  D.  Con  way,  Judge  Joseph  G.  Baldwin,  Dr.  F.  O. 
Ticknor,  and  many  others  scattered  throughout  the  coun 
try;  but  after  all  it  was  the  Southern  writers  who  made 
The  Messenger  what  it  was  characteristically.  They  were 
not  great  masters,  but  they  were  true  to  their  ideals,  fate- 
fully  human;  and  their  admirers  were  content  to  do  without 
organ  tones  as  long  as  they  gave  them  sincere,  tender  lyrics. 
With  these  voices  Thompson's  mingled,  often  with  a  beauty, 
always  with  a  fervor,  that  commanded  his  contemporaries, 
that  arrest  us  to-day,  and  will  enlist  posterity.  Few  writers 
of  his  day  made  as  popular  an  appeal  as  Thompson  did 
with  less  than  a  dozen  poems  known  as  his  war  pieces — 

*Mr.  Thompson  was  the  first  editor  of  a  magazine  to  accept  a 
story  by  me.  He  it  was  who,  on  my  entrance  into  the  field  of  lit 
erature,  took  me  by  the  hand  and  bade  me  welcome. — FRANK  H. 
STOCKTON,  in  the  University  of  }'ir(jinia  Alumni  linllfthi, 
1809. 


xxiv  BIOGRAPHY 

The  Burial  of  Lataney  General  J.  E.  B.  Stuart,  Ashby,  Lee  to 
the  Rear,  Music  in  Camp,  The  Battle  Rainbow,  and  two  or 
three  others. 

Even  these  fine  things  would  have  been  neglected  after 
the  passing  of  the  generation  in  which  they  were  written 
had  it  not  been  for  Southern  anthologies  that  appeared  at 
the  end  of  the  war,  those  deliberately  sectional  collections 
like  Simms's  The  War  Poetry  of  the  South,  Miss  Brock's 
Southern  Amaranth,  and  Miss  Mason's  Southern  Poems  of  the 
War.  These  bring  to  us  the  tumult  of  battle  and  the  lights 
and  the  shadows  of  life  in  the  tense  days  of  1861-65  more 
vividly  than  any  other  thing  ever  does  except  the  strains  of 
Dixie  or  the  sudden  sight  of  a  sword  or  a  stained  uniform 
piously  kept  for  its  memories  of  one  who  joined  the 

Glittering  lines  of  steel  and  gray 
Moving  down  the  battle's  way 

and  never  came  back. 

Thompson  and  his  fellow  singers  were  the  voice  of  that 
tragic  period;  they  expressed  as  no  other  voice  has  done, 
the  pride,  aspiration,  fear,  love,  sacrifice,  and  the  social 
consciousness  and  sensitiveness  of  their  generation.  The 
Messenger  was  their  medium,  and  because  of  its  faithful 
recording  of  these  emotions  it  had  a  more  devoted  con 
stituency  than  any  other  literary  publication  of  their  time. 
The  Atlantic  Monthly  and  Harper's  Magazine  were  arriv 
ing* — the  ywere  not  yet  in  their  teens  when  he  left  The 
Messenger — but  in  then*  poetry  they  were  farther  away  from 
the  popular  feeling  in  their  area  than  the  Richmond  monthly 

*When  Thompson  took  over  The  Messenger  (1847),  the  only  lit 
erary  magazines  published  in  America  that  could  be  thought  of  as 
competitors  were  the  American  Whig  Review,  which  died  in  1852, 
aged  seven,  the  Knickerbocker,  and  Godey's  Lady's  Book.  At  the 
close  of  his  work  (1860),  Harper's  Magazine  was  ten  and  the  At 
lantic  four. 


BIOGRAPHY  xxv 

was  from  the  emotions  of  its  constituents.  In  other  r<-- 
spects  Harper's  was  more  representative  of  the  national 
than  of  a  sectional  aspect  of  life,  and  thereby  lost  intensive 
power  while  gaining  extensive  vogue.  There  was  nothing 
national  about  The  Messenger.  Its  poems  had  about  them 
the  odor  of  the  jasmin  and  the  magnolia  of  the  groves  that 
embowered  Southern  mansions  and  cottages.  But  it  would 
not  be  a  pleasant  task  to  read  all  of  them  at  this  day.  Not 
all  of  them  were  written  by  Thompson,  Hope,  Haynr, 
Simms,  Ticknor,  Ryan,  and  lyrists  of  like  genius,  and  the 
singers  of  that  time  were  not  of  the  fashion  demanded  in 
ours.  Griswold's  Poets  of  America — the  large  majority  of 
his  poets  sang  far  from  the  palm — is  a  charnel  house  of  the 
forgotten,  but  it  was  counted  representative  sixty  years  ago. 
Changing  conditions  of  life  resulting  from  the  flight  of  time 
promote  disputes  over  literary  judgments,  which  concern 
life;  but  about  some  things  there  is  agreement.  The  accord 
in  one  respect  is  formulated  by  a  native  of  New  England: 

The  literature  of  the  Southern  school,  although  scant  in 
amount,  is,  at  its  best,  of  fine  quality;  and  the  writers  have 
more  in  common  than  those  of  New  York.  The  cavalier 
blood,  the  aristocratic  structure  of  society,  the  semi-tropical 
climate,  all  tell  in  the  literature,  which  has  more  local  pride, 
more  passion  and  color,  more  love  of  beauty  for  its  own 
sake.* 

Ill 

NOT   GETTING   ON 

Thompson  did  not  confine  his  energies  to  The  Messcmji  r. 
but  offered  some  of  his  literary  wares  to  other  publications 
— The  Literary  World,  edited  by  the  Duyckincks,  The  Inter 
national,  edited  by  Griswold,  and  The  Knickerbocker,  edited 
by  Clark.  The  Duyckincks  included  him  among  the  au- 

*  Bronson,  A  Short  History  of  American  Literature,  p.  152. 


xxvi  BIOGRAPHY 

thors  admitted  to  their  Cyclopaedia  of  American  Literature, 
and  Dr.  Griswold,  unjustly  critical  of  Poe,  was  appreciative 
of  the  younger  poet's  character  and  endowments. 

Editors  and  authors  were  not  well  paid  in  those  days, 
when  they  were  paid  at  all.  Longfellow  alone  of  American 
poets  received  "reason  for  his  rhymes."  Cooper  and  Irving 
were  able  to  live  by  their  pens,  but  they  were  exceptional. 
Hawthorne  was  wretchedly  paid  for  his  work  until  after 
The  Scarlet  Letter.  Other  Northern  and  Eastern  writers 
fared  worse.  In  the  South  the  field  offered  a  very  poor 
harvest  indeed,  for  reasons  that  need  not  be  rehearsed  here. 
There  no  genius,  however  transcendent,  could  live  by  song 
alone,  and  Simms,  in  industry  and  versatility  as  in  culture 
and  poetic  gifts  the  superior  of  Cooper,  was  alone  in  his 
ability  to  win  a  comfortable  income  from  his  productions. 
Poe  could  not  sell  his  poetry,  and  for  his  stories  received  at 
best,  four  dollars  "a  Graham  page" — about  three  dollars  a 
thousand  words — and  he  was  perhaps  the  best  paid  creator 
of  short  fiction  in  the  forties.  A  writer  in  the  New  York 
Literary  World,  comparing  American  with  English  com 
pensation  for  manuscripts,  found  the  Englishman's  guinea 
shrank  to  a  dollar  in  New  York. 

In  a  letter  to  Griswold,  December  2,  1851,  Thompson  pic 
tured  the  beginning  of  a  phase  of  his  life  which  persisted 
through  two  decades: 

.  .  .  The  Messenger  is  almost  "gone."  I  look  into  the 
future  to  see  nothing  but  disaster;  my  affairs  are  really  so 
much  embarrassed  that  the  sale  of  my  library  hangs  over 
me  like  some  impending  doom,  and  with  no  coryphaeus  of 
the  red-flag  fraternity  like  Keese  to  "knock  down"  my 
darlings.  Four  years  of  hard  labor  find  me  in  debt,  my 
small  patrimony  exhausted  and  myself  utterly  unfitted  for 
any  sort  of  employment.  I  have  followed  the  will-o'-the- 
wisp,  literary  fame,  into  the  morass,  and  it  has  gone  out, 
leaving  me  up  to  the  arm-pits  in  the  mud.  Eh,  bien  I  I 
snap  my  fingers  and  whistle  care  down  the  winds ! 


BIOGRAPHY  xxvii 

In  the  Spring  of  1839,  a  year  before  his  resignation  of  the 
editorship  of  The  Messenger,  Mr.  Kennedy  had  suggested 
the  possibility  of  Thompson's  appointment  to  the  headship 
of  the  Library  of  the  Peabody  Institute,  in  Baltimore.  !!<• 
was  strongly  endorsed.  Edward  Everett  and  Longfellow 
were  among  those  who  sent  letters  in  his  behalf,  and  there 
was  commendation  from  many  eminent  Virginians.  The 
matter  was  still  open  when,  in  March,  1860,  he  was  offered 
the  editorship  of  The  Southern  Field  and  Fireside,  at  a  salary 
of  $2,000.  He  wrote  Kennedy,  March  15,  1860: 

I  accepted  the  Georgia  overture  under  a  strong  compulsion 
of  debt  and  the  res  angusta — not  Awgusta.  My  life  has  not 
been  a  fortunate  one.  My  father — the  most  indulgent  of 
fathers — who  at  one  time  was  independent,  worth  his  hun 
dred  thousand  dollars,  has  been  impoverished.  The  Mes 
senger  which  I  took  in  better  days,  has  proved  a  dead  loss 
to  me — ever  so  much  money  sunk  and  twelve  years  of  early 
manhood  spent  unprofitably  in  maintaining  it.  At  thirty- 
six  I  must  commence  life  anew.  Here  comes  a  gentleman  of 
means,  who  has  successfully  (as  he  thinks)  established  a 
Southern  Literary  weekly — which  he  hopes  to  remove  after 
awhile  to  Richmond  as  a  more  desirable  point  of  publica 
tion — and  offers  me  a  salary  to  conduct  it,  greater  in  amount 
than  any  year's  earnings  I  have  ever  made  by  miscellaneous 
scribble  for  this,  that  and  the  other  newspaper  and  maga 
zine.  The  amount  of  work  I  am  to  do  is  actually  less  than  I 
have  had  to  perform  for  a  single  journal  with  which  I  have 
been  connected.  There  is  at  least  a  doubt  whether  I  shall 
obtain  the  honorable  and  comfortable  position  which  you 
so  generously  wish  me  to  fill.  Now,  between  duns  and 
drudgery  what  could  I  do  but  accept  the  certain  offer?  I 
have  not  failed  to  weigh  the  dSsagrSmens — the  instability  of 
Southern  enterprises — the  provincial  life — the  comparative 
obscurity  of  the  situation — the  remoteness  of  Georgia  from 
my  dear  friends  here  and  elsewhere — the  more  glowing  sun, 
— and  other  unpleasant  etcetera.  But  I  leave  the  whole 
matter  with  you,  my  dear  friend,  begging  that  you  will  par 
don  so  much  inevitable  egotism,  and  most  gratefully  ac 
knowledging  your  kind  intentions  in  my  behalf. 


xxviii  BIOGRAPHY 

What  he  received  for  editing  The  Messenger  is  not  dis 
closed.  Dr.  Bagby,  who  succeeded  him,  in  1860,  said  in  his 
vale  (January,  1864):  "It  may  excite  surprise,  and  may  no 
doubt  sound  laughable,  when  we  state  that,  in  times  of 
peace,  the  editor's  salary  was  but  $300 — a  pitiful  sum,  truly, 
which  was  increased  during  the  past  year  to  $400,  or,  allow 
ing  for  present  depreciation,  just  $20  in  coin,  for  editing  the 
leading,  and,  in  fact,  the  only  Southern  Magazine,  for  a 
year."  Poor  pay  in  depreciated  currency  was  the  order  of 
the  day  in  the  capital  of  the  Confederacy  in  1864. 

Thompson's  connection  with  The  Messenger  ceased  with 
the  May  number  of  1860.  On  the  evening  of  the  15th  of 
that  month  a  complimentary  dinner  was  given  him.  The 
tender  was  signed  by  William  H.  Macfarland,  Arthur  Mor- 
son,  Thomas  H.  Ellis,  R.  W.  Haxall,  R.  W.  Gary,  P.  T. 
Moore,  G.  W.  Randolph,  Thomas  H.  Wynne,  J.  Thomp 
son  Brown,  William  H.  Lyons,  John  Howard,  Archer  An 
derson,  S.  T.  Bayley,  J.  Addis  Pleasants,  Samuel  J.  Harri 
son,  W.  W.  Crump,  Charles  Bell  Gibson,  Thomas  P.  August, 
James  Lyons,  Andrew  Johnson,  William  H.  Haxall,  D.  N. 
Walker,  James  A.  Jones,  John  Pegram,  R.  T.  Daniel,  C.  R. 
Barney,  R.  B.  Haxall,  R.  B.  Heath,  William  Munford. 
Among  the  invited  guests  were  John  Esten  Cooke,  Esq., 
Dr.  H.  G.  Lathan  of  Lynchburg,  and  Dr.  Bagby. 

It  was  very  hard  to  leave  Richmond,  for  he  had  mingled 
in  its  life  intimately  and  formed  ties  that  were  very  dear  to 
him.  Whatever  life  in  Augusta  might  profit  him  he  could 
not  believe  it  would  offer  a  group  of  friends  of  the  fine  type  of 
those  who  sat  around  the  table  at  Zetelle's  that  notable  eve 
ning  in  May. 

He  reached  Augusta  three  days  after  the  Richmond  dinner 
in  his  honor,  and  eight  days  later  he  reported  his  surround 
ings  to  Kennedy.  The  climate  gave  him  some  anxiety. 
The  heat  was  overpowering,  but  with  his  "uniformly  tern- 


BIOGRAPHY  xxix 

prrato  habits  and  daily  use  of  the  cold  bath"  he  hoped  to 
maintain  his  health.  He  did  not  like  Augusta,  and  would 
not  have  chosen  it  as  a  residence,  "even  for  a  sweetheart's 
sake."  "You,"  he  told  his  correspondent,  "could  not  exist 
here  four  weeks.  Think  of  Rome  without  its  ruins,  Romi- 
without  Coliseum  or  Baths  of  Caracalla  or  Borghese  Villa, 
Rome  St.  Peter's-less,  Rome,  as  General  Jackson  said,  'in 
Georgy,'  and  fancy  yourself  a  resident  of  the  town  for  the 
summer  months!"  He  arranged  with  Mr.  Gardner,  owner 
of  The  Southern  Field  and  Fireside,  to  release  him,  if  the  li- 
brarianship  should  be  offered  to  him.  "I  would  acquaint 
you  at  the  earliest  moment  with  the  fact  that  my  inclina 
tion  tends  more  strongly  than  ever  toward  Baltimore." 

By  the  middle  of  August  he  was  in  Richmond,  under  a 
physician,  but  hoping  to  be  strong  enough  soon  to  proceed 
to  Newport,  where  he  believed  Mrs.  Stanard  to  be  sojourn 
ing.  Two  weeks  later  he  was  still  there,  still  an  invalid,  but 
still  determined  to  go  North.  In  October  he  was  in  Au 
gusta,  early  in  the  following  January  in  Richmond,  his  con 
nection  with  The  Southern  Field  and  Fireside  evidently  sev 
ered,  a  few  days  later  in  New  Yo'rk,  and  by  the  end  of  the 
month  Kennedy's  guest  in  Baltimore.  It  is  probable  that 
his  visit  to  New  York  was  in  search  of  employment,  and 
that  he  conferred  with  Kennedy  on  that  subject,  for  in  his 
letter  of  February  9,  sent  from  Richmond,  he  shows  his 
anxiety  to  have  something  to  do.  "Did  you  address  a 
note,  as  you  so  kindly  proposed  to  do,  to  the  proprietors  of 
the  American  f  I  am  here  entirely  without  occupation  and 
feel  a  miserable  loss  of  self-respect  in  idleness.  If  they 
would  consent  to  receive  letters  from  Richmond  during  the 
convention  it  would  at  least  give  me  some  employment  for 
the  time  being." 

Kennedy's  efforts  in  his  behalf  brought  him  an  offer  of  a 
position  on  the  Baltimore  American  in  May.  The  war  was 


xxx  BIOGRAPHY 

at  hand.  Lincoln  had  issued  his  call  upon  Virginia  for  troops. 
Under  other  circumstances  the  offer  made  him  by  Mr.  Ful 
ton  of  the  American  would  have  given  him  great  pleasure. 
He  regarded  his  life  as  a  failure  and  had  eagerly  sought  an 
opportunity  to  "start  over."  The  lure  of  assured  com 
petence  and  comfort  was  strong,  but  it  was  subordinate  to 
other  motives.  He  announced  his  decision  to  Mr.  Kennedy: 

I  write  to  offer  you  my  sincere  thanks  for  your  interfer 
ence  with  Mr.  Fulton  in  my  behalf.  I  wrote  to  him  yester 
day  stating  the  reasons  why  I  could  not  entertain  his 
proposition  to  become  connected  with  the  American.  Our 
town  is  threatened  with  invasion  by  Lincoln's  armies — my 
parents,  my  widowed  sister,  my  home  is  here,  every  con 
sideration  of  filial  and  patriotic  duty  would  oblige  me  to 
remain  and  share  in  the  fate  of  my  native  Virginia,  apart 
from  any  convictions  I  might  entertain  of  the  original  folly 
of  secession.* 

Thompson's  physical  condition  was  so  low  he  could  not 
enter  the  military  service  of  the  Confederacy.  He  became 
Assistant  Secretary  of  the  Commonwealth  and  as  such  had 
a  share  in  the  administration  of  the  State  Library,  under  the 
librarian,  George  W.  Munford.  He  has  been  credited  with 
aiding  Governor  Letcher  in  the  preparation  of  his  state 
papers;  and  he  was  known  as  the  contributor  of  the  letters 
to  the  Memphis  Appeal  under  the  nom  de  plume  of  "Dixie.'5 
Since  returning  from  Augusta  in  the  early  whiter  of  1860  he 
had  embraced  every  opportunity  to  earn  an  income  with  his 
pen.  He  was  connected  with  the  Richmond  Record  in  1863, 
but  it  had  only  a  brief  existence.  The  Index,  the  Confeder 
ate  organ  in  London,  took  a  weekly  letter  from  him.  He 
contributed  poems  to  the  Richmond  Southern  Illustrated 
News,  and  was  for  a  time  its  editor,  as  we  learn  from  an 

*  Letter  to  Kennedy,  May  16. 


BIOGRAPHY  xxx  i 

unpublished  letter  of  William  Gilmore  Simms,  written  in 
July,  1863. 

After  his  retirement  from  The  Messenger  he  published 
some  of  his  best  poems — among  them  The  Battle  Rainbow,  A 
Word  with  the  West  (sometimes  under  the  title  Joe  Johnston), 
The  Burial  of  Latane,  Ashby,  and  General  J.  E.  B.  Stuart — 
but  it  is  certain  that  the  income  from  his  verse  was  exceed 
ingly  small. 

The  first  half  of  the  year  1864  was  a  period  of  deep  dis 
tress.  Events  were  moving  steadily  toward  Union  success 
in  the  war.  Northern  troops,  slowly,  it  is  true,  but  surely, 
were  nearing  Richmond  even  then,  a  year  before  the  sur 
render.  Butler  was  advancing  up  the  Peninsula.  The 
alarm  at  times  was  so  acute  that  bells  were  rung  to  arouse 
and  assemble  the  utmost  of  available  force  to  oppose  the 
conquerors.  Local  troops  were  hurried  to  the  defense  of 
the  beleaguered  capital  until  there  were  no  men  left  to  con 
duct  the  most  necessary  business  for  the  support  of  the 
population.  No  trains  were  arriving  or  departing.  Mails 
that  reached  the  postoffice  remained  there  and  none  was 
sent  out  of  the  city,  for  all  the  clerks  and  other  employees 
were  in  the  trenches.  The  boom  of  cannon  spoke  daily  of 
battle  and  the  smoke  of  it — visible  from  the  city — told  them 
that  the  invader  was  at  the  threshold  of  the  capital  city. 

Worry  over  the  tragic  situation  of  the  South,  and  his 
own  condition,  were  rapidly  reducing  Thompson's  never- 
abundant  vitality.  In  June,  1864,  the  disease  that  emit  c I 
his  life  nine  years  later  seemed  sure  of  its  victim  within  a 
few  months  if  its  progress  was  not  checked.  His  friends 
forced  him  to  go  away  from  the  immediate  presence  of  the 
awful  struggle  in  the  hope  that  his  physical  condition  would 
improve.  On  the  20th  of  that  month  he  went  to  the  capital 
and  drew  his  last  allowance  as  Assistant  Secretary  of  the 
Commonwealth.  He  wrote  in  liis  diary  that  day — "The 


xxxii  BIOGRAPHY 

hour  of  parting  from  family  and  friends  for  an  indefinite 
period  of  time  comes  rapidly,  and  feeble  health  conspires 
with  the  moral  emotion  to  make  me  exceedingly  wretched." 

Two  days  later  he  began  his  journey  to  the  seaboard,  in 
a  Richmond  &  Danville  train,  via  Raleigh  and  Goldsbor- 
ough,  accompanied  by  his  nephew  Charles  H.  Quarles. 
The  trip  required  several  days,  and  it  was  two  weeks  after 
his  departure  from  his  native  city  that  he  sailed  in  the 
steamer  Cape  Fear,  transferring  to  the  Edith  at  Fort  Fisher. 
By  eight  o'clock  that  evening  the  Edith  was  at  sea,  having 
passed  safely  the  inner  blockading  squadron  off  the  bar. 
Thompson  slept  that  night  on  deck,  on  a  bale  of  cotton. 
At  daybreak  they  were  chased  by  a  steamer,  supposed  to  be 
the  Connecticut,  the  pursuit  continuing  nine  hours.  Later 
two  other  steamers  tried  to  overhaul  the  Edith,  but  night 
came  on  and  she  escaped  in  the  darkness. 

On  July  8,  three  days  after  the  departure  from  Wilming 
ton,  the  traveller  was  in  the  harbor  of  St.  Thomas,  Ber 
muda,  where  he  transferred  to  the  British  mail  steamer 
Alpha  which  sailed  in  the  evening  for  Halifax.  Thence  the 
Asia  bore  him  across  the  Atlantic. 


IV 

THE   DAY'S   WORK   THUS   FAR 

Thompson  had  previously  visited  Europe,  and  had  writ 
ten  a  volume  of  sketches  of  travel  entitled  Across  the  At 
lantic,  or  European  Episodes,  which  was  in  process  of 
publication  by  Derby  &  Jackson  when  the  publishers'  estab 
lishment  was  destroyed  in  the  great  New  York  fire  of  1856. 

In  1863,  while  he  was  editing  the  Richmond  Record,  which 
soon  passed  away,  he  collected  his  own  and  Timrod's  poems 
and  sent  them  through  the  blockade  for  publication  in  Lon- 


BIOGRAPHY  xxxiii 

don.  As  his  first  venture  with  a  book  was  brought  to  naught 
by  fire,  so  his  second  one  was  probably  frustrated  by  water- 
At  any  rate,  the  manuscript  was  never  heard  of  again. 

When  Thompson  left  the  United  States  in  1864  he  had  al 
ready  done  nearly  all  the  work  upon  which  his  claims  upon 
the  attention  of  posterity  must  rest.  Of  the  poems  known 
to  have  been  written  after  May,  1864,  Miserrimus  (1868), 
and  the  poem  read  at  the  meeting  of  the  Alumni  at  the 
University  of  Virginia  in  the  summer  of  1869,  alone  add 
anything  to  his  fame.  Lee  to  the  Rear  was  mailed  from 
London  to  Blackwood's  in  January,  1866,  and  was  prob 
ably  written  that  winter,  although  it  may  have  been  com 
posed  before  he  left  Richmond.  There  is  no  poem  that  can 
be  called  the  product  of  his  London  environment.  His 
fame  was  enhanced  by  his  three  known  translations — Heine's 
Where  ?  Beranger's  The  Garret,  and  Nadaud's  Carcassonne* 

Thompson  was  a  poet  in  journalism  and  something  of  a 
journalist  in  poetry.  Nearly  all  of  his  verse  had,  when  pro 
duced,  the  quality  of  timeliness,  and  to  a  large  extent  he 
found  his  motifs  in  notable  current  events.  His  inclination 
to  timely  annalism  is  well  illustrated  in  Miserrimus,  which 
was  first  published  under  the  caption  A  Local  Item — a  very 
familiar  title  in  that  day  when  newspaper  men  were  far 
advanced  if  they  looked  upon  foreign  news  as  competing  at 
all  with  the  records  of  local  happenings.  All  of  his  Civil 
War  pieces  were  of  the  timely  type.  More  than  a  third  of 
his  lines  were  written  to  be  recited  on  public  occasions. 

*  A  friend  in  an  article  in  The  Evening  Post,  signed  E.  D.,  credits 
him  with  translating  Victor  Hugo's  L'Homme  Qui  Rit,  and  with 
softening  and  suppressing  with  infinite  tact  and  grace  its  grossness 
and  absurdities,  and  making  it  actually  readable  by  persons  who 
would  have  been  shocked  by  the  naked  indecencies  of  the  original. 
Hayne  wrote  from  "Copse  Hill"  near  Augusta,  Ga.,  October  4, 
1869,  to  inquire  if  it  was  true  that  he  had  done  this  work  for  Put 
nam' a  and  hoped  he  had,  "because  the  translation  is  wonderful." 


xxxiv  BIOGRAPHY 

"The  occasional*  that  he  has  thus  written,"  it  has  been  said, 
"could  have  been  done  as  well  by  not  more  than  two  other 
men  in  the  South,  and  better  by  none."  No  Southern  poet 
— indeed  no  American  contemporary — surpassed  these  no 
ble  lines  which  occur  in  the  opening  ode  read  at  the  unveil 
ing  of  Crawford's  Washington  in  Richmond: 

Not  queenly  Athens  from  the  breezy  height 

Where  ivory  Pallas  stood, 
As  flowed  along  her  streets  in  vesture  white 

The  choral  multitude; 
Not  regal  Rome  when  wide  her  bugles  rolled 

From  Tagus  to  Cathay, 
As  the  long  triumph  rich  with  Orient  gold 

Went  up  the  Sacred  Way; 
Not  proud  basilica  or  minster  dim, 

Filled  with  War's  glittering  files, 
As  battle  fugue  or  coronation  hymn 

Swept  through  the  bannered  aisles, 
Saw  pageant,  solemn,  grand,  or  gay  to  view 

In  moral  so  sublime, 
As  this,  which  seeks  to  crown  with  homage  due 

The  foremost  man  of  time. 

The  lyric  touch  was  not  lacking.     The  Picture — beginning 

Across  the  narrow,  dusty  street, 

I  see,  at  early  dawn, 
A  little  girl,  with  glancing  feet, 

As  agile  as  a  fawn. 
An  hour  or  so,  and  forth  she  goes 

The  school  she  brightly  seeks; 
She  carries  in  her  hand  a  rose, 

And  two  upon  her  cheeks — 

won  from  a  competent  critic  the  verdict  that  it  was  "as 
piquant  as  Praed,  as  natural  and  unaffected  as  Mrs.  Welby, 
as  tender  as  Mrs.  Osgood,  and  as  true  as  Wordsworth." 
It  is  not  a  just  cause  of  reproach  that  Thompson  was  not 


BIOGRAPHY  xxxv 

national — that  this  Virginia-horn  son  of  Northern  parents 
was  simply  Southern  in  his  emotions  and  most  of  his  themes. 
He  was  quite  as  American  as  Bryant,  who  was  a  little  itmn 
.so  than  Poe;  or  Longfellow,  much  of  whose  best  work  is  a 
reflex  of  his  studies  in  Scandinavian  literature  and  of  old- 
world  ballad  methods,  or  Lowell,  or  Whittier,  who  often 
represent  narrow  corners  instead  of  great  spaces  in  Amer 
ican  life,  and  will  also  remain  to  the  end  of  their  vogue 
provincial  poets  of  intellectual  biases.  Thompson  did  good 
work  in  other  fields,  but  his  war  lyrics  have  proved  the 
true  warrants  of  his  fame.  It  is  not  too  much  to  claim  for 
him  the  first  place  among  those  that  made  the  minstrelsy  of 
the  Confederacy  their  mission.  Nothing  that  he  wrote 
creates  the  passion  for  war;  nothing  of  his — unless  Coercion 
does — incites  to  martial  ardor,  to  the  march,  the  attack,  as 
Timrod's  Carolina: — 

The  despot  treads  thy  sacred  sands ! — 

but  nothing  in  Timrod's  war  poems  surpasses  the  tender 
beauty  of  Thompson's  Ashby,  or  the  solemn,  moving  power 
of  his  Burial  of  Latane.  His  poems  of  the  war  fill  few  pages, 
but  many  hearts.  Compared  with  the  war  time  poets  of 
the  North,  Trent*  finds  with  reluctance  that  "perhaps  there 
is  a  slight  and  a  natural  preponderance  of  intensity  in  the 
lyrics  of  defiance  and  regret  in  which  such  Southern  poets 
as  John  Randolph  [sic!]  Thompson,  Dr.  Francis  O.  Tick- 
nor,  'Father  Ryan'  and  Mrs.  Margaret  J.  Preston  poured 
out  their  souls."  He  balances  against  these  hopefully 
Henry  Howard  Brownell,  Mrs.  Ethelinda  Beers,  whose 
fame  rests  on  All  Quiet  Along  the  Potomac,  Julia  Ward 
Howe,  and  Byron  Forceythe  Willson,  any  and  all  of  whom 
Thompson  easily  outmeasures  in  lyric  values.  Nor  is  there 

*  American  Literature,  473. 


xxxvi  BIOGRAPHY 

one  for  that  matter  among  the  Northern  singers  who  ap 
proaches  the  charm  and  worth  displayed  by  the  work  of 
Ticknor,  Ryan  or  Mrs.  Preston;  not  one,  indeed,  who  will 
be  remembered  at  all  except  Mrs.  Beers  and  Mrs.  Howe, 
each  for  a  single  effort.  Thompson's  name  is  not  held  sus 
pended  out  of  engulfing  oblivion  by  any  chance  association 
with  a  great  name  or  a  merely  fortuitous  incident,  but  by 
the  circumstance  of  his  being  the  interpreter,  the  voice,  of  a 
tense  period  and  of  the  souls  of  some  great  men.  He  knew 
these  men  of  might,  the  knightly  kind.  He  spoke  the  South's 
thought  of  Ashby  and  Latane,  and  in  his  "ringing  ballad" 
sent  "Bold  Stuart  riding  down  the  years."  A  part  of  their 
fame  is  his,  a  part  of  his  is  theirs:  each  without  the  other 
was  immortal. 

While  the  hope  that  Thompson  will  live  in  the  future 
must  be  based  upon  his  poetry,  his  greatest  service  to  letters 
and  his  times  was  performed  in  his  capacity  of  editor. 
Nearly  all  of  the  twenty-eight  years  of  his  life  after  leaving 
the  University  were  spent  in  editorial  tasks.  Thirteen  years 
were  given  in  more  senses  than  one  to  The  Southern  Literary 
Messenger,  and  five  were  spent  in  the  employ  of  The  New 
York  Evening  Post.  He  made  occasional  declarations  of 
his  ideals,  as  in  his  introductory  discussion  in  his  first  num 
ber  of  The  Messenger,  already  quoted,  and  as  in  his  "Edi 
tor's  Table"  ten  years  later  when  he  said: 

It  is  getting  to  be  thought  that  a  man  may  perhaps  ac 
complish  as  much  for  the  South  by  writing  a  good  book  as 
by  making  a  successful  stump-speech;  that  he  who  con 
tributes  to  the  enjoyment  of  his  fellow  citizens  by  a  lofty 
poem,  or  shapes  their  convictions  by  a  powerful  essay,  is 
not  an  idle  dreamer  merely;  and  that  the  pen  devoted  to  the 
treatment  of  subjects  out  of  the  range  of  politics  and  com 
mercial  activities  is  as  usefully  employed  as  the  tongue 
which  is  exercised  in  the  wearisome  declamation  of  legislative 
halls.* 

*  Southern  Literary  Messenger,  XXV.  471. 


BIOGRAPHY  xxxvii 

He  stuck  to  his  text  to  the  end  of  his  life's  discourse,  and 
by  doing  so  succeeded  to  an  extent  in  arousing  the  Southern 
muse  to  some  consciousness  of  her  opportunity  and  her 
power.  His  successor  on  The  Messenger*  in  estimating  his 
services,  said,  in  1860  :f 

When  he  took  charge  of  it  [The  Messenger}  he  was  but  a 
boy  just  out  of  the  University,  his  talents,  his  acquirements, 
his  skill,  at  composition,  were  known  only  to  a  few  intimate 
acquaintances.  What  guarantee  was  there  that  the  maga 
zine,  then,  as  now,  one  of  the  first  in  the  Union,  would  be 
conducted  properly?  What  assurance  had  the  readers  of 
The  Messenger  that  he  upon  whose  youthful  shoulders  had 
fallen  the  weight  which  Edgar  A.  Poe,  with  all  his  genius 
and  supreme  critical  ability,  found  no  easy  burthen,  would 
prove  strong  enough  to  bear  it?  Let  the  pages  of  The  Mes 
senger  during  the  past  thirteen  years  be  the  answer.  It  is 
but  the  simple  statement  of  fact  to  say  that  the  arduous 
task  of  conducting  a  leading  magazine  has  been  accom 
plished  by  Mr.  Thompson  with  signal  success.  The  un 
known  aspirant  for  literary  honours  in  1847  leaves  The 
Messenger  in  I860  a  man  distinguished  in  every  part  of  the 
Confederacy,  in  the  North  scarcely  less  than  in  the  South, 
as  a  poet,  a  scholar,  a  lecturer,  an  editor. 

There  is  no  certain  record  of  what  he  did  while  editing 
The  Southern  Field  and  Fireside  in  Augusta,  or  while  con 
ducting  The  Record  in  Richmond  in  1863;  and  what  he  ac 
complished  with  the  London  Index  cannot  be  valued,  even 
if  it  influenced  American  life  in  more  than  a  temporary 
way,  which  is  very  doubtful,  but  there  is  no  uncertainty 
when  we  come  to  his  contribution  in  the  five  years  of  his 
association  with  William  Cullen  Bryant  and  Mr.  Bryant's 
son-in-law,  Parke  Godwin,  on  Ttie  New  York  Evening  Post. 
Stedman,  who  helped  to  advance  him  to  this  connection, 
and  Godwin,  who  saw  him  daily  and  was  necessarily  fa 
miliar  with  his  performance,  are  witnesses  who  establish  his 

*  Dr.  George  W.  Bagby.  f  Messenger,  XXX,  467. 


xxxviii         .  BIOGRAPHY 

/•" 

title  to  high  distinction.  A  quarter  of  a  century  after 
Thompson's  passing,  Godwin*  wrote  this  appreciation  of 
his  editorial  associate: 

Mr.  Thompson  was  for  some  years  a  companion  of  mine 
in  the  office  of  The  New  York  Evening  Post — where  he 
served  as  literary  editor — and  I  am  free  to  say  that,  in  the 
course  of  a  long  and  varied  experience,  I  never  met  a  per 
son  whom  I  admired  more  for  his  accomplishments  as  a 
scholar  and  his  courtesy  as  a  gentleman. 

Mr.  Thompson  was  commended  to  us  (though  of  this  I 
am  not  entirely  certain)  by  the  late  William  Gilmore  Simms, 
who  was  an  intimate  friend  of  Mr.  William  Cullen  Bryant, 
our  editor-in-chief,  and  with  whom  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
passing  a  part  of  his  summer  vacations  at  Great  Barring- 
ton,  in  Massachusetts. 

We  were  glad  to  receive  the  services  of  Mr.  Thompson. 
His  long  experience  as  editor  of  The  Southern  Literary  Mes 
senger,  his  wide  and  varied  cultivation,  and  his  past  in 
timacy  with  Southern  authors,  such  as  Edgar  A.  Poe,  John 
P.  Kennedy,  and  J.  Esten  Cooke,  rendered  his  assistance 
particularly  valuable. 

The  Evening  Post  devoted  a  large  part  of  its  space  to 
literary  criticism,  and  the  diligence  of  Mr.  Thompson  was 
equal  to  every  demand.  His  critiques  were  always  intelli 
gent,  adequate  and  instructive.  He  was  not  one  of  those 
critics  who  suppose  that  their  function  consists  in  discour 
aging  literature  by  the  severity  of  their  judgments,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  he  thought  it  consisted  in  favoring  and  fos 
tering  every  sign  of  real  nascent  talent.  There  are  many 
authors,  now  eminent,  who  in  their  youth  got  a  helping 
hand  from  Mr.  Thompson's  kindly  and  discerning  ap 
preciation. 

He  thus  put  into  practice  the  philosophy  of  sympathy 
and  support  enunciated  by  Swinburne  hi  his  saying  that  he 
had  "never  been  able  to  see  what  should  attract  man  to 
the  profession  of  criticism  but  the  noble  pleasure  of  prais- 

*  Alumni  Bulletin,  VII,  o.  s.,  62-63. 


BIOGRAPHY  xxxix 

ing."  In  this  respect  he  was  unlike  Poe,  whose  caustic 
justice  "continued  to  attach  to  himself  animosity  of  the 
most  enduring  kind."  The  fact  that  "  he  was  versed  in  a 
more  profound  learning  and  skilled  in  a  more  lofty  min 
strelsy,  scholar  by  virtue  of  a  larger  erudition,  and  poet  by 
the  transmission  of  a  diviner  spark,"  did  not  protect  him 
from  the  envious  obscure. 

There  is  not  a  trace  of  Poe's  methods  or  performance  in 
Thompson's  work.  His  themes  were  outside  the  real  or 
dreamed  experience  of  a  man  of  Thompson's  type  of  mind 
and  emotions,  and  his  artistic  performance,  at  its  best,  was 
far  beyond  him. 

Thompson  met  Poe  first  in  the  Spring  of  1848.  The 
latter  had  just  emerged  from  a  two-weeks'  sojourn  in  Rich 
mond  riverside  resorts  of  a  low  order,  described  with  evi 
dent  disgust  in  Thompson's  letter  to  E.  H.  N.  Patterson.* 
In  that  condition  he  was  not  attractive  to  his  younger 
brother  in  the  muses.  His  testimony  against  Poe  was  the 
most  respected  of  that  adduced  to  justify  the  Griswold- 
Lowell-Willis  biography.  But  while  he  disapproved  of 
Poe's  conduct,  and  did  not  become  his  imitator  as  a  poet, 
he  recognized  and  admired  his  great  genius.  No  other 
critic  who  appraised  his  work  in  the  year  of  his  death  mea 
sured  Poe's  merits  so  accurately.  This  young  editor  of 
twenty-six  wrote  for  his  magazine  by  far  the  best  con 
temporary  estimate;  and  it  is  by  no  means  certain  that 
any  later  literary  demonstrator  has  seen  more  of  the  psychal 
force  enveloped  in  this  much  dissected  personality,  or  more 
keenly  appreciated  his  mastery  of  the  art  by  which  it  was 
expressed. 

*  Edgar  Allan  Poet  Works,  Virginia  ed.,  XVII,  403. 


xl  BIOGRAPHY 


HIS   LIFE    IN   LONDON 

In  1854,  confiding  the  editorial  direction  of  The  Mes 
senger  to  his  friend,  John  Esten  Cooke,  the  "Surry  of  Eagle's 
Nest"  in  later  achievements,  Thompson  had  gone  abroad 
for  a  year  of  travel  and  recuperation.  His  wanderings 
took  him  to  many  parts  of  England,  and  thence  to  Bel 
gium,  Holland,  the  Rhine  country,  Austria  and  France. 
More  prose  than  poetry  came  of  his  wanderjahr.  In  verse 
he  did  some  parodies  and  skits  of  no  great  importance,  but 
in  prose  he  produced  a  series  of  "editorial  letters"  of  much 
merit.  Carefully  revised,  these  composed  the  luckless 
volume,  Across  the  Atlantic. 

Probably  Thackeray  decided  Thompson  to  carry  out  his 
long  cherished  purpose  to  cross  the  Atlantic  when  that  genial 
novelist  had  been  his  guest  in  the  Spring  of  1853,  and  at 
the  office  of  The  Messenger,  then  in  the  "Richmond  Athe 
naeum,"  or  at  his  father's  house  in  Mayo  Street  had  met 
everybody  worth  knowing.  On  his  arrival  in  London  the 
Virginian  was  warmly  welcomed  at  the  Thackeray  home, 
in  Onslow  Square.  Between  him  and  gifted  Anne  Thack 
eray,  then  a  girl  of  sixteen,  there  grew  up  a  friendship 
which  was  one  of  the  happiest  of  his  many  attachments. 
To  her,  on  the  day  of  his  death,  two  decades  afterwards,  he 
sent  one  of  his  last  messages. 

On  this  first  visit  to  England  he  had  met  many  of  the 
literati  and  other  notable  persons,  and  was  now  not  with 
out  acquaintances.  In  the  ten  years  between  his  visits 
(1854-1864)  his  pen  had  won  for  him  an  enviable  reputation 
in  London,  where  his  war  lyrics  were  known  and  appreci 
ated;  and  this  good  will  was  enlarged  when  it  became  known 
that  he  was  the  Virginia  correspondent  of  The  Index  who 


BIOGRAPHY  xli 

had  presented  the  cause  of  the  Confederacy  so  persuasively 
as  to  win  for  it  sympathy  and  respect.  The  years  had,  of 
course,  taken  away  some  things  he  desired:  the  greeting 
from  Thackeray  who  was  gone  it  would  be  a  year  the  com 
ing  Christmas;  the  ambrosial  nights  with  him  at  Evans's, 
the  "Cave  of  Harmony"  of  The  Newcomes,  and  intellec 
tual  hours  with  Macaulay,  whom  death  had  found  at  Holly 
Lodge  reading  Thackeray's  Adventures  of  Philip. 

Almost  from  the  beginning  of  the  War  Between  the 
States  there  was  a  considerable  Confederate  colony  in  Eng 
land,  and  a  smaller  one  in  Paris.  Of  the  first  James  M. 
Mason,  special  Commissioner  of  the  Confederate  States  of 
America  to  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  was  a  conspicuous 
member  until  the  Confederate  Commission  came  to  an  end 
in  1863,  and  he  was  forced  to  withdraw,  going  to  Paris, 
after  which  he  was  designated  "Commissioner  to  the  Con 
tinent  at  Large."  Official  England  was  studiedly  cool  to 
the  representative  of  the  Confederacy,  in  support  of  its 
policy  of  strict  non-interference,  which  Thompson  satirized 
in  his  poem,  England's  Neutrality.  Unofficial  England  was 
not  neutral,  but  warmly  sympathetic.  Tennyson,  Carlyle, 
and  their  entourage  spoke  their  sentiments  freely;  society 
declared  itself  in  its  usual  way  by  invitations,  bazaars, 
and  the  like,  and  democracy  by  acclamation.  There  were 
many,  and  some  notable,  exhibitions  of  popular  sympathy.* 

When  Mr.  Mason  retired  to  Paris  at  the  end  of  his  Eng 
lish  mission,  he  found  living  there,  at  16  Rue  de  Marignan, 

*  "I  was  at  the  Mansion  House  last  night,"  Mr.  Mackay,  of  the 
great  shipping  firm  of  T.  M.  Mackay  &  Co.,  of  Leadenhall  Street, 
wrote  to  James  Spence,  the  Liverpool  banker,  "and  heard  the  Lord 
Mayor  virtually  recognize  the  South  in  the  quietest  and  most  in 
offensive  way  that  could  be  imagined."  The  Times  report  fre 
quently  indicates  "cheering,"  "prolonged  cheering,"  "great  cheer 
ing." 


xlii  BIOGRAPHY 

good  Virginia  friends,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Soutter  and  their  two 
daughters,  who  installed  him  perforce  in  their  home,  from 
which  thereafter  Commissioner  Mason's  official  dispatches 
to  the  Confederate  State  Department  were  dated.  He 
frequently  visited  England  because,  as  he  explained,  so 
cieties  were  forming  throughout  the  kingdom,  headed  by 
noblemen  and  eminent  public  men,  who  were  endeavor 
ing  to  bring  about  a  recognition  of  the  independence  of  the 
Confederate  States,  and  he  believed  he  ought  to  maintain 
contact  and  take  advantage  of  every  opportunity  to  serve 
his  government.  He  was  at  24  Upper  Seymour  Street, 
Portman  Square,  when  Thompson  reached  London.  The 
Virginian  called  without  delay,  and  found  old  acquain 
tances  with  Mr.  Mason,  and  made  new  ones.  He  was  par 
ticularly  pleased  to  see  Captain  James  D.  Bulloch  of  Georgia, 
a  man  of  many  adventures  who  had  cruised  in  the  seven 
seas  as  midshipman  and  then  lieutenant  in  the  old  navy, 
who  was  commissioned  Commander  C.  S.  N.,  and  was  now 
in  London  as  naval  agent;*  and  also  gallant  Walker  Fearn 
of  Mobile,  who  had  been  sent  to  Europe  by  the  Confederate 
State  Department,  first  to  Spain  as  Secretary  to  Commis 
sioner  Pierre  A.  Rost  of  Louisiana,  and  then  to  Russia  as 
Secretary  to  Commissioner  Lucius  Q.  C.  Lamar  of  Georgia; 
and  now,  on  his  return  to  the  South,  he  was  seeing  some 
thing  of  London. 

Mr.  Mason  and  his  secretary,  James  Edward  Macfarland 
of  Petersburg,  Va.,  who  had  been  secretary  of  the  Amer 
ican  legation  at  London  before  the  war,  were  about  to  visit 
Scotland  and  Ireland,  and  Thompson  gladly  accepted  their 
invitation  to  go  with  them.  Their  tour  lasted  a  month. 

*  Captain  Bulloch  furnished  to  the  Confederacy  the  cruisers 
Florida,  Alabama  and  Shenandoah,  and  the  ram  Stonewall.  He  wrote 
the  very  valuable  The  Secret  Service  of  the  Confederate  States  in  Europe. 
This  staunch  Confederate  was  the  uncle  of  Theodore  Roosevelt. 


BIOGRAPHY  xliii 

Then  for  some  weeks  Thompson  was  exceedingly  busy  at 
the  office  of  The  Index  in  Bouverie  Street,  "getting  the  run 
of  things,"  and  writing  editorials  and  American  notes. 
The  Index  was  a  weekly  paper  of  sixteen  folio  pages,  about 
tin-  size  of  Harper's  Weekly,  and  not  unlike  it  in  appear 
ance.  Three  of  its  pages  were  given  to  editorials.  Presi 
dent  Davis  was  possessed  by  the  belief — to  the  serious 
disadvantage  of  the  military  enterprise  of  his  government, 
many  believed — that  England  would  abandon  neutrality 
and  recognize  the  seceding  states  as  a  confederated  nation 
with  a  stable  government.  The  Index  was  to  promote  this 
result,  in  the  manner  described  by  the  following  declaration 
of  purpose  repeated  in  each  issue: 

The  Index  was  established  hi  May,  1861,  in  the  darkest 
hour  of  Confederate  fortunes,  by  earnest  friends  of  South 
ern  Independence,  with  the  distinctly  expressed  object  of 
being  the  representative  in  English  journalism,  of  a  gal 
lant  and  struggling  people  appealing  to  the  world  not  only 
for  political,  but  still  more  for  moral  recognition.  Since 
accepting  this  great  trust  The  Index  has  unceasingly  labored, 
by  the  combined  aid  of  English  and  of  Southern  writers,  to 
enlarge  and  extend  the  common  ground  upon  which  two 
nations  could  cordially  meet,  which  need  only  to  under 
stand  each  other  in  order  to  cherish  the  warmest  mutual 
appreciation  and  lasting  friendship.  The  chief,  and  almost 
the  sole,  difficulty  has  been,  and  is  still,  the  callous  indif 
ference  of  the  British  Government  on  the  one  hand,  and, 
on  the  other,  the  perplexity,  to  the  European  mind,  of  the 
unsolved  and  unprecedented  problems  involved  in  the 
management  and  education  of  four  millions  of  the  African 
race,  intermingled  with  a  population  of  the  highest  Cau 
casian  type.  This  difficulty  could  be  met  only  by  a  liberal 
fairness  to  every  shade  of  honest  opinion,  by  an  inflexible 
adherence  to  truth  under  all  circumstances,  and  by  a  bold 
avowal  of  convictions,  even  though  ill-received.  The  In 
dex  does  not  claim  to  be  neutral,  but  it  claims  to  be  inde 
pendent  in  the  highest  sense  of  the  word.  It  is  because  it 


xliv  BIOGRAPHY 

must  reflect  and  appeal  to,  at  one  and  the  same  time,  the 
public  opinion  of  two  countries  as  yet  only  imperfectly  ac 
quainted  that  this  somewhat  unusual  self-description  is 
called  for. 

The  Index,  through  correspondents,  and  newspapers  re 
ceived  in  exchange,  got  news  from  all  parts  of  the  Con 
federate  States,  and  was  the  vade  mecum  of  Southerners  in 
Europe  and  their  sympathizers. 

Until  a  day  or  two  before  Christmas,  Thompson's  leisure 
was  given  to  social  diversions.  He  dined  at  Harrington 
House,  "the  company  being  Lady  Harrington,  Lady  Geral- 
dine  Evelyn  Stanhope,  Miss  Soutter,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  and 
Miss  Eustis,  Mr.  Corbin,  Colonel  Fitzhugh  and  Mr.  King- 
lake,  author  of  the  History  of  the  Crimean  War  and  Eothen" ; 
attended  a  dinner  party  at  Mr.  Mason's;  spent  an  evening 
with  Carlyle  at  No.  5  Cheyne  Row,  and  talked  of  General 
Lee,  whom  the  author  of  Heroes  and  Hero  Worship  admired 
greatly;  visited  Woolner,  the  sculptor,  in  Cavendish  Square, 
with  Tennyson,  "a  quiet  and  simple  mannered  man  who 
smoked  a  pipe  and  drank  hot  punch,"  and  often  met  there 
Tyndall  and  Palgrave,  and  occasionally  Robert  Browning; 
took  long  strolls  in  Hyde  Park  with  Fearn  and  Fauntleroy; 
was  a  day  and  night  the  guest  of  the  Wortleys,  at  Wortley 
Lodge,  Mortlake,  and,  returning  in  an  open  carriage  with 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Wortley,  experienced  a  London  fog  so  dense 
that  steamers  could  not  make  their  usual  trips  on  the 
Thames;  dined  with  General  and  Mrs.  George  W.  Randolph 
at  their  apartments  hi  the  Burlington,  along  with  Mr. 
Corcoran,  Commissioner  Mason,  Captain  Fitzhugh  Carter 
(son  of  Hill  Carter  of  "Shirley"  in  Virginia),  Captain  Bui- 
loch  and  Allan  Young,  R.  N.,  afterwards  Sir  Allan  Young, 
the  arctic  explorer; — and  with  all  this  and  more  wrote 
probably  all  of  the  articles  and  paragraphs  that  filled  the 
three  editorial  pages  of  The  Index  each  week.  Then,  on 


BIOGRAPHY  xlv 

December  23,  with  General  and  Mrs.  Randolph,  he  took 
packet  at  Dover  and  crossed  the  Channel,  which  was  in  ;i 
stormy  mood,  to  Calais,  and  proceeded  to  Paris,  when-  h< 
was  welcomed  cordially  by  Charles  Walsh  at  his  home  in 
Avenue  Gabriel.  There,  for  him,  the  old  year  ended  and  the 
new  began;  in  what  manner  these  entries  in  his  Diary  tell: 

Dec.  27— Dined  at  Eustis's,  No.  45  Rue  de  la  Ville  1'Eveque 
— small  but  elegant  dinner — Fitzhugh  and  myself  the  only 
guests.  Eustis's  mother,  wife,  and  sister  at  the  table. 

Jan.  1,  1865— Drove  to  Mr.  F.  P.  Corbin's  in  the  Fau 
bourg  St.  Germain,  where  he  lives  in  magnificent  style.  We 
had  a  delightful  dinner.  The  guests  were  Mr.  Slidell,  Gen 
eral  and  Mrs.  Randolph,  Commodore  Barren,  Mr.  Josephs, 
Mr.  Charles  Stewart  (son  of  the  late  Admiral  Stewart  of  the 
Old  United  States  Navy),  and  myself.  The  chilly,  dark 
day  was  in  accordance  with  the  feelings  of  all  Confederates 
in  Paris.  It  was  impossible  to  disconnect  the  aspect  of 
nature,  so  cheerless  and  forbidding,  with  the  unhappy  con 
dition  of  our  country,  nor  to  fail  to  wonder  at  the  utter  in 
difference  manifested  by  the  giddy,  pleasure-loving  Parisian 
with  regard  to  the  desolating  war  in  America.  The  New 
Year  opens  for  us  in  sorrow.  God  grant  it  may  close  in  joy. 

He  wras  soon  back  in  London,  busy  again  with  his  work 
and  in  quiet  enjoyment  of  its  social  life.  His  circle  of  friends 
was  growing,  and  intimate  friendships  becoming  more  in 
timate.  One  of  the  dearest  of  his  London  friends — he  al 
ways  referred  to  him  as  "My  friend  Lawley" — was  Francis 
Charles  Lawley,  fourth  son  of  Lord  Wenlock,  at  one  time 
private  secretary  to  Mr.  Gladstone,  whose  wife  was  his 
cousin.  As  the  Southern  correspondent  of  The  Times,  he 
was  a  familiar  figure  at  Confederate  military  headquarters, 
and  enjoyed  the  confidence  of  Lee,  Hampton  and  Long- 
street,  and  other  Southern  leaders. 

Thompson    was    frequently    summoned    to    39    Berkeley 


xlvi  BIOGRAPHY 

Square,  the  home  of  Lawley's  mother,  the  dowager  Lady 
Wenlock.  In  the  circle  in  which  Thompson  moved  in  his 
busy  two  and  a  half  years  in  London  were  many  other  well 
known  persons  whose  friendship  he  valued;  among  them 
Edward  Bulwer,  whom  Lord  Derby  made  a  peer  two  years 
later;  Owen  Meredith,  whose  Lucile,  published  three  or 
four  years  before,  was  to  be  seen  everywhere;  Moncton 
Milnes,  recently  created  Baron  Houghton;  Millais,  just 
then  in  the  midst  of  his  most  notable  achievements  with 
the  brush;  the  Thackerays,  whose  home  in  Onslow  Square 
was  a  loved  retreat,  into  which  he  introduced  many  of  his 
Virginia  friends;  Macmillan,  the  publisher;  Admiral  Schenley 
of  Prince's  Gate,  Byron's  friend,  who  assured  Thompson  that 
his  lordship  was  "a  coarse,  lubberly  man,"  and  that  the 
Countess  of  Guiccioli  was  never  pretty,  even  in  her  premiere 
jeunesse;  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury;  Hep  worth  Dixon, 
editor  of  the  Athen&um;  Shu-ley  Brooks  of  Punchy  destined 
to  succeed  Mark  Lemon  as  editor  of  the  famous  weekly; 
Frederick  Locker-Lampson,  author  of  London  Lyrics;  Mow- 
bray  Morris,  editor-in-chief  of  The  London  Times;  and 
Robert  Chambers,  who  told  anecdotes  of  Sir  Walter  Scott; — 
and  others  of  a  list  too  long  to  be  fully  set  down  here. 

Among  men  of  letters  his  most  intimate  acquaintance 
was  the  old  philosopher  of  Chelsea,  who  was  nearing  the 
end  of  his  Life  of  Frederick  the  Great  when  Thompson  ar 
rived  hi  England.  It  was  his  custom  to  spend  two  or  three 
evenings  at  5  Cheyne  Row  each  month,  and  at  other  times 
they  met  in  the  streets,  or  in  Hyde  Park,  for  quiet  strolls. 
Occasionally  he  was  the  guest  of  the  poet  laureate.  His 
Diary  contains  an  interesting  account  of  one  of  his  visits 
to  Farringford,  an  inviting  picture  of  the  manor  and  its 
surroundings,  and  a  glimpse  of  the  home-life  of  the  Tenny- 
sons. 

The  news  from  home  was  growing  worse  all  the  time. 


BIOGRAPHY  xlvii 

Wilmington  was  captured;  then  Richmond  fell.     The  en 
tries  in  the  Diary  at  this  time  reflect  his  distress: 

April  28 — The  Observer  of  this  morning  contains  the 
startling  and  dreadful  intelligence  of  the  surrender  of  Gen 
eral  Lee  and  his  entire  army.  .  .  .  Received  a  letter  from 
my  sister,  dated  April  third,  describing  the  terrible  scenes 
attending  the  evacuation  of  Richmond.  My  books  are 
burned  as  I  had  supposed,  and  my  father  has  lost  his  all 
by  the  fire.  This  news,  and  the  surrender  at  Appomattox, 
have  wholly  unfitted  me  for  work. 

April  26 — Went  to  the  Strand  and  remained  all  day  writ 
ing  on  The  Index.  About  two  o'clock  the  editor  of  The 
Standard  [Captain  Hamber]  came  in,  bringing  the  startling 
news  of  Lincoln's  assassination  on  the  night  of  the  four 
teenth  in  the  theatre  at  Washington  by  J.  Wilkes  Booth. 
Was  greatly  shocked  and  distressed  to  hear  it,  because  I  do 
not  think  a  shameful  murder  can  advance  any  good  cause, 
and  I  fear  the  mind  of  Europe  will  be  easily  persuaded  that 
Booth  was  prompted  to  commit  the  horrible  crime  by  Con 
federates.  I  was  especially  pained  to  learn  tliat  he  pro 
faned  the  motto  of  Virginia,  "Sic  Semper  Tyrannis"  by 
shouting  it  from  the  stage  just  before  making  his  escape. 
When  I  returned  to  the  West  End  I  found  the  whole  mighty 
metropolis  in  a  state  of  the  most  intense  excitement  at  the 
news.  I  have  never  before  witnessed  such  a  sensation  in 
London. 

Thompson  was  disconcerted  when  Henry  Hotze,  the  Con 
federate  commercial  agent  in  London,  informed  him  that 
the  Confederate  funds  in  Europe  were  in  a  state  of  bank 
ruptcy  and  that  The  Index  would  probably  be  discontinued, 
for  then,  of  course,  his  salary  would  be  suspended.  The 
paper  did  not  long  survive  the  war,  but  other  employment 
was  at  hand,  and  he  lingered  in  London.  In  spite  of  the 
wreck  of  his  hopes  as  a  Southern  patriot  he  found  life  in  the 
great  city  constantly  yielding  solace.  His  social  accep 
tance  was  just  as  cordial  as  when  the  Confederacy  was  be 
lieved  to  be  approaching  its  goal  of  independence.  He  was 


xlviii  BIOGRAPHY 

still  a  welcome  guest;  well-informed,  cultivated,  a  gifted 
raconteur,  a  good  cue  at  billiards,  and  a  desirable  partner  at 
whist.  But  he  was  longing  to  return  to  Virginia.  A  friend 
wrote  of  him,  with  clear  insight:  "Virginian  he  is,  Virginian 
he  must  remain.  Be  his  home  where  it  may,  let  his  taste 
and  talents  find  fitting  reward  in  what  state  they  may,  he 
shall  not  forget  the  beautiful  city  that  gave  him  birth  and 
the  noble  old  commonwealth,  which  he  has  already  hon 
ored,  and  whom  he  will  honor  yet  more  in  years  to  come.'* 
"I  envy  everyone  going  home,"  he  wrote  in  his  Diary.  "I 
long  to  see  dear  old  Virginia.  I  love  her  deeper  for  her  im 
poverishment.  Her  wasted  fields  seem  more  beautiful  than 
this  richly  cultured  England."  When  he  could  resist  no 
longer  he  sailed  from  Liverpool  on  September  16,  1866,  in 
the  Cunard  steamship  Cuba,  and  after  ten  days  of  rough 
seas  safely  reached  Halifax,  and  the  end  of  the  third  phase 
of  his  life. 

VI 

THE   LAST   PHASE 

In  many  respects  the  years  Thompson  spent  in  London 
were  the  happiest  of  his  life,  and  yet,  when  The  Index  sus 
pended,  he  would  have  gladly  returned  to  Virginia.  He 
remained  at  No.  3  Clifford  Street,  Bond,  to  prepare  Von 
Borcke's  Memoirs  of  the  Confederate  War  for  Independence 
for  publication  in  Blackwood's  Magazine.  He  began  on  the 
Memoirs  in  June,  1865,  and  had  the  manuscript  far  enough 
advanced  for  the  appearance  of  the  first  instalment  in 
September.  The  serial  publication  was  concluded  hi  June, 
1866.  In  October  of  that  year  the  work  appeared  in  book 
form,  in  two  handsome  volumes. 

But  this  was  not  all  that  his  pen  was  put  to.  Captain 
Hamber,  editor  of  The  Standard,  engaged  him  to  write  a 


BIOGRAPHY  xlix 

leader  each  week.  He  became  the  London  correspondent 
of  the  Louisville  Journal  and  the  New  Orleans  Picayune, 
writing  a  weekly  letter  to  each.  The  Cosmopolitan  was 
using  his  "leaders."  He  was  writing  for  The  Crescent  Maga 
zine,  published  in  New  Orleans  by  William  Evelyn  and 
edited  by  an  Englishman  named  Flash.  His  large  ac 
quaintance  with  English  and  Irish  editors  held  a  door  open, 
which  it  would  have  been  profitable  to  enter — in  a  word, 
he  was  well  started  on  his  career  as  a  writer,  in  London. 
Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better  if  he  had  remained  tlu-rc. 

But  there  was  the  longing  for  Virginia,  and  the  impulse 
to  return  probably  led  to  self -deceiving.  It  was  easy,  and 
inspiring  too,  to  think  that  the  South  was  recovering  from 
the  paralysis  induced  by  the  war;  that  in  Virginia  atrophy 
was  giving  place  to  vigor,  and  that  in  Richmond,  his  home 
— to  him  still  the  capital  of  God's  country — there  was  a 
demand  for  services  such  as  he  could  render.  He  arrived  in 
Richmond  late  in  the  autumn  of  1866,  and  faced  unexpected 
conditions.  There  was  no  place  for  him — no  employment 
— among  such  of  his  old  friends  as  remained.  The  Southern 
Literary  Messenger  was  only  a  cherished  memory,  the  last 
number  was  dated  June,  1864,  two  years  before  his  return. 
The  Examiner  was  no  more,  and  Hughes  and  Southall  and 
Bagby  were  filling  other  editorial  assignments,  of  which 
there  were  fewer  than  in  earlier  days. 

Thompson  turned  to  the  platform  in  his  search  for  an  in 
come,  and  delivered  lectures  in  Louisville,  New  Orleans 
and  other  large  cities,  on  "English  Journalism"  and  "The 
Life  and  Genius  of  Edgar  A.  Poe,"  but  with  no  intention, 
it  seems,  of  abandoning  journalism.  Richmond  had  failed 
him,  and  the  South,  where  his  friends  were,  was  not  a 
promising  field.  He  must  have  hesitated  before  turning  his 
thought  seriously  to  the  North,  and  yet  he  did  so  in  two 
or  three  months  after  his  return  from  Europe.  His  friend 


1  BIOGRAPHY 

John  Pendleton  Kennedy  was  in  Europe  trying  to  recover 
his  lost  health,  and  Thompson  had  to  make  his  way  as  best 
he  could,  unsupported  by  the  Marylander  or  any  other  in 
fluential  person.  In  April,  1867,  he  wrote  from  Richmond 
to  B.  Johnson  Barbour  of  Barboursville,  Va.: 

Having  satisfied  myself  beyond  all  question  that  there  is 
no  career  for  me  here,  no  hope  of  employment  even,  I  am 
just  on  the  eve  of  departure  for  New  York,  where  I  shall 
remain  en  permanence  if  the  fates  are  propitious.  I  have 
nothing  certain  before  me,  and  only  go  to  "breast  the 
blows  of  circumstance,  and  grapple  with  my  evil  star." 
The  Bohemian  life  is  dreary  enough  in  the  prospect  of  it, 
and  my  heart  is  sad  almost  unto  breaking  in  sundering  the 
tie  that  binds  me  to  Virginia,  but  I  must  get  to  work  and  the 
sooner  the  better. 

He  reached  New  York  in  April,  1867.  What  he  did  in 
the  ensuing  twelve  months  seems  to  be  a  lost  story.  It 
may  be  true,  as  some  one  has  conjectured,  that  he  was  for 
a  part  of  that  time  employed  on  The  Albion.  He  was  lonely 
and  unhappy,  and  probably  scantily  supplied  with  money. 
Money  would  have  been  very  well,  of  course,  but  it  could 
not  have  made  another  Richmond  of  the  great  city  to  which 
he  was  exiled.  He  missed  the  charm  of  drawing-rooms  like 
Mrs.  Stanard's,  the  cheer  of  wits  like  August  and  Gibson, 
the  comradeship  of  men  of  genius  like  Bagby,  McCabe,  and 
Cooke,  and  the  sweet  intercourse  and  sympathy  of  the  pa 
ternal  home  in  Leigh  Street.  Richmond,  seven  years  be 
fore,  had  seduced  him  into  resigning  the  editorship  of  The 
Southern  Field  and  Fireside,  the  most  lucrative  position  he 
had  ever  held.  The  New  York  nostalgia  must  have  been 
even  more  distressing,  and  with  it  went  a  lack  of  money 
acutely  painful  to  a  man  of  Thompson's  tastes  and  pride. 

At  the  end  of  that  year  of  discontent  (April,  1868)  he 
was  in  the  employ  of  William  Young,  Thackeray's  friend, 


BIOCiRAI'IIY  li 

and  translator  of  Bcrangrr,  then  publishing  Every  After 
noon,  successor  of  his  Albion,  a  high  class  publication  on  the 
model  of  Tin-  St.  Jaw*  Cn-eftc.  and  similar  English  jour 
nal*.  /•>••/•//  Afternoon  suspended  after  four  weeks  of  un 
profitable  existence. 

William  Gilmore  Simrns  or  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman 
and  some  other  friend  of  the  Virginian  took  some  of  his 
reviews  to  William  Cullen  Bryant  of  the  New  York  Evening 
Post.  Their  excellence  recommended  him  and  he  was  given 
work,  and  after  a  short  probation  he  was  assigned  to  the 
important  position  of  literary  editor.  The  Evening  Post 
took  what  Mr.  Godwin  himself  described  as  a  "supposed" 
"extreme  position  in  the  political  controversies  of  the  time" 
— by  which  he  meant  that  The  Post  was  firmly  anti-South 
ern — but  Thompson  did  not  compromise  in  order  to  be  al 
lowed  to  earn  his  bread.  He  frankly  avowed  his  unchanged 
convictions,  and  was  met  with  equal  manliness  on  the 
part  of  his  employers  who  assured  him  that  nothing  but  the 
quality  of  his  service  would  be  scrutinized. 

His  old,  untiring  enemy — consumption — began  to  dog  his 
footsteps  almost  as  soon  as  he  was  comfortably  seated  at 
the  editor's  desk,  but  he  was  unafraid,  and  did  his  work 
with  a  cheery  good  will.  What  was  probably  the  last  of  his 
poetical  moods  to  be  expressed  found  a  medium  in  Heine's 
beautiful  Wo? — known,  in  English,  as  The  Grave  Song  and 
The  Wanderer: 

Where  shall  yet  the  wanderer  jaded 

In  the  grave  at  last  recline? 
In  the  South,  by  palm  trees  shaded  ? 

Under  lindens  by  the  Rhine? 

Shall  I  in  some  desert  sterile 
Be  entombed  by  foreign  hands? 

Shall  I  sleep,  beyond  life's  peril, 
By  some  seacoast  in  the  sands? 


lii  BIOGRAPHY 

Well !  God's  heaven  will  shine  as  brightly 

There  as  here,  around  my  bed, 
And  the  stars  for  death-lamps  nightly 

Shall  be  hung  above  my  head. 

This  translation  was  made  in  August,  1872.  In  the  early 
months  of  that  year  Thompson  had  accompanied  William 
Cullen  Bryant  to  Nassau  and  Cuba,  and  written  notes  of 
travel  to  The  Evening  Post.  They  returned  by  way  of 
New  Orleans  at  Easter.  The  Picayune  said,  a  year  later, 
"It  was  but  too  painfully  apparent  that  the  shadow  on  the 
dial  had  already  fallen  for  him."  His  friends  in  The  Eve 
ning  Post  office  saw,  as  the  year  wore  on,  that  he  was  los 
ing  ground,  and  in  February,  1873,  they  sent  him  to  Colo 
rado.  He  remained  until  April  17.  On  that  day  he  wrote 
from  Denver  to  Mrs.  Daniel  Henderson,  wife  of  one  of  the 
owners  of  The  Evening  Post: 

My  dear,  dear  friend: 

I  have  been  losing  ground  steadily  beyond  a  doubt  in  the 
dreadful  weather  of  high  winds,  chilling  frosts  and  drift 
ing  snow  storms  of  the  past  two  or  three  weeks,  and  the 
doctors  order  me  to  leave  Colorado.  I  shall  go  tonight  in 
the  train  to  Kansas  City,  Pullman  sleeping  cars,  making 
many  stops  on  the  way  to  husband  the  little  strength  I 
have.  I  am  in  doubt  whether  to  go  first  to  New  York  or 
Virginia,  but  shall  determine  on  the  way  and  inform  you. 
If  I  go  to  New  York  I  shall  come  directly  to  54th  street 
[the  Henderson  home],  trusting  that  you  will  make  me  a 
bed  somewhere  down  stairs,  for  I  cannot  go  up  a  single 
flight.  I  am  wasted  to  a  skeleton  and  am  hardly  able  to 
dress  myself. 

On  the  homeward  journey  Thompson  reached  Kansas 
City  in  a  condition  that  obliged  him  to  call  in  a  physician. 
He  hoped  that  a  short  rest  there  would  add  to  his  strength 
and  enable  him  to  resume  his  progress  eastward;  but  he 
grew  feebler.  Virginia  was  out  of  the  question.  He  pru 
dently  telegraphed  his  friends  of  The  Evening  Post  to  send 


BIOGRAPHY  liii 

some  one  to  bear  him  company.  James  Wood  Davidson, 
who  was  filling  his  position  on  77/6'  Post  in  his  absence, 
joined  him  in  Kansas  City  and  took  him  to  New  York.  In 
a  letter  to  Mrs.  Quarles,  the  poet's  sister,  Mr.  Davidson 
told  of  the  warm-hearted  welcome  at  the  close  of  his  last 
journey: 

Arrived  at  New  York,  and  at  Mr.  Henderson's — you 
know  the  rest.  I  had  never  met  Mrs.  Henderson  before  our 
arrival,  but  my  heart  was  at  once  drawn  to  her  by  the 
womanly  tenderness  with  which  she  received  your  brother 

by  the  many  things  I  saw  she  had  prepared  in  advance 
for  our  coming — by  those  gentle  ministrations  which  woman 
only  knows  how  to  give — by  tender  touches  of  the  hand — 
l>\  soothing  and  hopeful  words — by  a  thousand  nameless 
sweet  offices  that  flow  from  woman's  heart  to  those  they 
love.  Ah,  my  dear  madam,  had  she  been  his  mother  she 
could  not  have  been  more  attentive,  more  tender,  more 
lovingly  attentive  than  she  was,  and  was  uninterruptedly 
from  the  moment  of  our  arrival  until  the  end.  My  heart 
has  thanked  and  blessed  her  a  thousand  times  since  for  it 
all.  Nothing — absolutely  nothing — could  have  been  done 
for  his  comfort  that  was  not  done,  and  done  sweetly,  lovingly. 

At  Mr.  Henderson's  the  excitement  incident  to  reunion 
with  his  friends  revived  him,  and  he  even  sat  up  for  a  while. 
Retiring  early  in  the  evening  of  Tuesday,  April  29,  he  slept 
fitfully.  He  was  without  any  illusion  as  to  his  condition, 
and  on  Wednesday  morning  he  sent  for  Mr.  Stoddard  and 
committed  his  literary  interests  to  his  care,  confiding  to 
him,  Tlie  Home  Journal  relates,  "his  wishes  in  relation  to 
the  disposal  of  his  manuscripts."  His  friend  Davidson  \\a- 
with  him  the  most  of  the  day.  He  became  unconscious  at 
about  four  o'clock  and  remained  so  until  he  died. 

At  half  past  four  o'clock  his  friend,  Mr.  Coffin  (Barry 
Gray),  who  had  been  among  the  first  to  welcome  him  when, 
shortly  after  the  close  of  the  war,  he  came  to  this  city  from 
England,  stood  beside  his  dying  couch,  where  he  remained 


liv  BIOGRAPHY 

until  he  passed  away.  At  that  hour  he  was  dying  and  his 
respirations  were  slow  and  faint,  and  his  pulse  flickering 
with  his  ebbing  life.  Five  minutes  before  his  death  the 
pulsation  ceased,  the  breath  grew  shorter  and  shorter,  and 
without  a  struggle  or  a  tremor  he  entered  that  "bourne 
from  whence  no  traveller  returns,"  like  one  who  "wraps 
the  drapery  of  his  couch  about  him  and  lies  down  to  pleas 
ant  dreams."  At  exactly  twenty-five  minutes  past  five 
o'clock,  on  Wednesday  afternoon,  April  30,  Mr.  Coffin 
closed  the  eyes  of  one  of  the  loveliest  characters  that  earth 
has  known.* 

Funeral  services  were  held  at  Mr.  Henderson's  Friday 
afternoon  (May  2).  Among  the  friends  and  associates  in 
literary  employments  who  drew  near  the  casket  for  a 
last  look  were  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman,  Richard  H. 
Stoddard  of  The  Aldine,  William  Cullen  Bryant,  Parke 
Godwin  and  family,  Whitelaw  Reid  of  The  Tribune,  Roger 
A.  Pry  or,  Mrs.  Mary  B.  Dodge  of  Hearth  and  Home,  R.  B. 
Coffin,  better  known  as  "Barry  Gray,"  Judge  Daly,  James 
Wood  Davidson  of  The  Evening  Post,  Augustus  Maverick 
of  The  Commercial  Advertiser,  formerly  of  The  Post,  Blair 
Scribner,  Roswell  C.  Smith,  and  Richard  Watson  Gilder, 
all  of  Scribner's  Monthly,  Mr.  Durand,  the  art  critic,  and 
Professor  Chase  of  The  New  York  Herald. 

The  Reverend  Doctor  Morgan,  rector  of  St.  Thomas's 
Episcopal  Church  in  New  York,  read  appropriate  selections, 
and  the  Reverend  Doctor  Noah  H.  Schenck,  of  St.  Ann's, 
Brooklyn,  spoke  touchingly  of  the  departed  writer.  "Mr. 
Thompson  had  been  a  familiar  visitor  of  his  family — almost 
an  inmate  of  his  house.  He  felt  his  death  as  a  personal 
grief!  He  could  think  of  no  other  individual  whose  char 
acter,  gem-like,  possessed  so  many  brilliant  facets.  There 
was  a  personal  magnetism  about  him  that  made  him  win 
without  wooing.  He  was  not  soullessly,  intellectually,  or 
politically  ambitious.  In  fact  he  lived  rather  cloistered; 

*  New  York  Home  Journal,  May  7.  1873. 


BIOGRAPHY  Iv 

and  the  periphery  of  his  life  was  the  circumference  of  his 
affections." 

There  was  a  little  group  from  Richmond,  made  up  of  the 
poet's  widowed  sister,  Mrs.  Susan  P.  Quarles,  his  nephew, 
Charles  II.  Quarles,  who  had  aeeompunied  him  to  Wilming 
ton  on  his  departure  for  Europe  in  1864,  his  brother-in-law, 
Mr.  Massie,  and  his  niece.  Miss  Massie.  Immediately 
after  the  funeral  the  journey  to  Virginia  began. 

The  wanderer  was  now  returned  to  his  native  city,  Rich 
mond.  The  day  previous  to  the  funeral  there,  the  bar,  the 
press,  alumni  of  the  University  of  Virginia,  and  many  others 
met  hi  the  hall  of  the  House  of  Delegates  to  prepare  to  re 
ceive  the  returning  Virginian  with  becoming  ceremony. 
Governor  Walker  presided,  and  George  W.  Bagby,  James 
Pleasants,  James  McDonald,  Thomas  H.  Wynne  and  P. 
T.  Moore  reported  resolutions  fitly  characterizing  his  genius 
and  appraising  his  character  and  achievements.* 

^As  Dante  from  Ravenna  came, 
Our  poet  came  from  exile — dead.* 

On  the  day  of  his  coming — the  third  day  of  May — from  St. 
Paul's  Church,  where  he  had  worshipped  with  his  heroes, 
Robert  E.  Lee  and  Jefferson  Davis,  he  was  borne  to  Holl\- 

*  The  Committee  which  met  the  returning  poet  at  the  Byrd  Street 
Station  was  composed  of  leading  citizens  of  Richmond:  Judg<-  I' 
K.  Wrllford,  Col.  William  D.  Coleman,  Peachy  R.  Grattun,  6«B.  IV 
T.  Moore,  James  Pleasants,  Col.  J.  C.  Shields,  W.  H.  Haxall,  Ix-wU 
Ginter,  Dr.  George  W.  Bagby,  Col.  James  McDonald,  Col.  Thom.i- 
H.  Wynne,  Col.  H.  C.  Cabell,  Hon.  A.  M.  Keiley,  Major  Bak.-r  IV 
Lee,  James  A.  Cowardin,  Judge  Hunter  Marshall,  Judge  W.  W. 
Crump,  Hon.  James  A.  Seddon,  Dr.  Moses  D.  Hoge,  Dr.  W.  I' 
Palmer,  Hon.  James  Lyons,  Hugh  M.  Stanard,  Major  W.  B.  Mv«-r-. 
Dr.  R.  Barksdale,  Hon.  R.  T.  Daniel,  Col.  W.  P.  Burwell,  and  M. 
R.  Stanard. 

The  services  at  St.  Paul'>  \\rn-  conducted  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  .T.^lni.i 
Peterkin  of  St.  James  Church,  assisted  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Moses  D. 
Hoge  of  the  Second  Presbyterian  Church. 


Ivi  BIOGRAPHY 

wood  and  entombed  in  sight  of  the  last  home  of  another  of 
his  heroes,  General  J.  E.  B.  Stuart.  The  granite  shaft 
above  him  was  the  tribute  of  Northern  and  Southern  friends, 
and  bears  the  just  estimate: — "The  graceful  poet,  the  bril 
liant  writer,  the  steadfast  friend,  the  loyal  Virginian,  the 
earnest  and  consistent  Christian." 

The  day  following  his  death  there  appeared  in  The  Eve 
ning  Post  an  editorial  appreciation  of  Mr.  Thompson,  at 
tributed  to  William  Cullen  Bryant,  which  only  a  good  man 
could  deserve: 


It  has  rarely  been  our  lot  to  be  associated  with  a  person 
who  combined  more  completely  the  best  characteristics 
of  the  Christian  gentleman  and  scholar  than  John  R.  Thomp 
son.  Endowed  with  the  warmth  and  quick  sensibilities  of 
a  native  of  the  South,  a  keen  sense  of  personal  honor,  and  a 
chivalrous  devotion  to  his  friends  and  his  cause,  whatever 
it  might  be,  he  was  yet  so  amiable  in  his  disposition  and  so 
courteous  in  his  conduct,  that  he  made  no  enemies  and  won 
hosts  of  friends.  No  one,  indeed,  ever  approached  him 
without  being  impressed  alike  by  his  geniality,  his  integ 
rity  and  his  modesty.  .  .  .  He  had  read  so  variously,  ob 
served  so  minutely,  and  retained  so  tenaciously  the  re 
sults  of  his  reading  and  his  observation  that  he  was  never 
at  a  loss  for  a  topic  and  never  failed  to  invest  what  he  was 
speaking  of  with  a  rare  and  original  interest.  His  fund  of 
anecdote  was  almost  inexhaustible,  and  his  ability  to  il 
lustrate  any  subject  by  apt  quotation  no  less  remarkable. 
The  English  poets  and  essayists  seemed  to  be  always  at  his 
fingers'  ends,  and,  what  is  not  usual  with  men  of  wide  mis 
cellaneous  studies,  he  was  as  accurate  as  he  was  various. 
.  .  .  Not  unaware  of  the  certainty  of  his  fate  he  yet  sel 
dom  gave  way  to  despondency  or  lost  his  interest  in  the 
great  movements  of  life.  It  was  because  his  character  and 
tastes  had  rendered  life  agreeable  to  him  in  so  many  ways 
(despite  the  dark  clouds  that  war  and  disease  had  gathered 
over  it)  that  he  desired  to  live;  and  no  less  because  he  had 
properly  estimated  its  ends  and  issues  that  he  did  not  fear 
to  die.  He  went  away  reluctantly,  for  he  left  behind  him 
some  that  were  dependent  upon  him  and  many  that  loved 


BIOGRAPHY  Ivii 

him  well;  but  he  went  away  peacefully,  knowing  where 
he  had  placed  his  trust  for  the  future,  and  that  the  pas 
sage  which  we  who  gaze  upon  it  from  this  side  call  Death 
is  to  those  who  gaze  upon  it  from  the  other  side  the  Dawn 
of  a  larger  and  nobler  activity. 

The  poet  was  forty-six  when,  in  1869,  Mr.  Davidson 
made  this  pen  picture: 

In  person  Mr.  Thompson  is  a  small  and  slender  man  of 
easy  manner;  dresses  with  marked  taste;  has  an  engaging 
and  steady  blue  eye,  and  a  voice  low,  earnest,  and  brisk, 
with  a  well  defined  emphasis  in  talking;  converses  well; 
wears  American  whiskers,  of  neutral,  yellowish  color;  has 
hair  darker,  and  thin,  with  an  approach  towards  baldness. 

Benjamin  B.  Minor,  Thompson's  predecessor  in  the 
editorship  of  The  Messenger,  knew  him  best  in  the  years  of 
his  active  career  in  Richmond,  years  of  the  fourth  of  the 
five  decades  of  his  life.  He  was  then,  as  later,  indeed  as 
always,  "neat  and  prim  and  attentive  to  his  dress  and  per 
sonal  appearance.  His  address  was  good,  but  rather  studied; 
his  conversation  was  pleasant,  and  he  had  some  humor;  his 
manner  was  respectful  and  unassuming,  but  painstaking 
and  ingratiating.  He  was  a  man  of  culture  and  aesthetic 
taste."*  "He  was  fastidious  in  his  dress,"  writes  t  the 
daughter  of  V.  C.  P.,  in  whose  honor  Benedicite  was  com 
posed;  "dainty  as  a  woman  might  be.  I  remember  his 
pretty,  big  silk  handkerchiefs  in  the  days  when  such  things 
were  rare;  and  always  there  was  cologne  on  them."  In  the 
Autumn  following  his  death  John  Esten  Cooke  lovingly 
recalled  his  friend: 

He  was  small  in  stature  and  of  delicate  appearance.  His 
eyes  were  dark  and  had  a  peculiar  softness  and  brightness 

*  Mr.  Minor's  letter  quoted  by  Link,  Pioneers  of  Southern  Litera 
ture,  II,  389. 

t  Private  letter,  January  10,  1919. 


Ix  BIOGRAPHY 

trating  an  act  or  a  saying  that  one  would  rather  not  have 
done  or  said. 

At  the  time  of  his  death,  Thompson  was  a  recognized 
master  of  prose  style,  the  literary  editor  of  the  foremost 
journal  of  his  day,  and,  as  a  poet,  as  well  known  as  his  friends 
Hayne  and  Timrod.  But  Hayne's  poems  and  Timrod's, 
collected  and  put  forth  in  book  form,  made  a  better  bid  for 
recognition  than  Thompson's  in  the  ephemeral  garb  of  news 
paper  and  magazine.  Ill-luck  attended  his  efforts  to  pub 
lish  his  poems.  His  last  effort  to  have  his  work  put  in  en 
during  form  was  made  as  his  life  was  closing,  in  the  Spring 
of  1873.  "I  know,  of  my  personal  knowledge,"  Colonel 
McCabe  avers  in  a  letter  to  the  writer,  "that  he  left  com 
plete  copies,  exquisitely  done,  of  his  poems,  looking  to  their 
eventual  publication.  I  saw  them,  carefully  done  up,  in 
numerous  packages,  four  years  before  Thompson  died,  all 
endorsed  in  his  beautiful  handwriting."  And  Mrs.  Eliza 
beth  Stoddard  relates — confirming  the  statement  of  The 
Home  Journal — that  on  the  day  of  his  death  he  sent  for  her 
husband,  R.  H.  Stoddard,  "whom  he  made  his  executor, 
with  full  liberty  to  act  according  to  his  judgment  in  regard 
to  the  disposition  of  his  effects."  : 

It  is  known  that  Mr.  Stoddard  delivered  Thompson's 
library  to  Bangs,  Merwen  &  Co.,  656  Broadway,  New  York, 
who  printed  a  catalogue  of  the  books  and  autographs,  and 
offered  these  effects  for  sale  on  July  19  and  20,  1873.  The 
Thompson  manuscripts  were  not  included.  These  the  fam 
ily  directly,  and  others  acting  for  it  later,  sought  to  recover, 
but  Stoddard  did  not  remember  having  received  any.  The 
testimony  of  The  Journal  and  of  Mrs.  Stoddard  seems  to 
indicate  that  his  memory  was  not  good. 

Whatever  the  precise  truth  of  this  scrap  of  literary  his 
tory  may  be,  John  R.  Thompson's  work  has  never  been 

*  Lippincotfs  Magazine,  November,  1888. 


BIOGRAPHY  bti 

fully  or  fairly  presented  for  the  judgment  of  the  world. 
Only  his  war  poems  have  come  under  review.  These  sin 
cere  students  of  Southern  literature  have  regarded  with 
increasing  respect.* 

Thompson  began  his  literary  career  consciously  in  the 
service  of  Southern  literature,  and  never  wearied  of  dis 
covering  and  acclaiming  promising  writers.  Our  last  glimpse 
of  him  at  his  congenial  task  is  afforded  by  The  New  York 
Evening  Post: 

The  late  literary  editor  of  The  Evening  Post,  when  he 
left  this  city  about  the  middle  of  February,  on  a  tour  to  the 
West,  took  with  him  for  review  at  his  leisure  the  then  re 
cently  issued  volume  of  The  Poems  of  Henry  Timrod,  edited, 
with  •  sketch  of  the  poet's  life,  by  Paul  H.  Hayne  (E.  J. 
Hale  &  Son).  The  task  of  reviewing  that  volume  he  wished 
to  reserve  to  himself.  He  wished  to  give  utterance  in  his 
own  language  to  his  own  high  estimate  of  his  departed 
poet-brother.  This  generous  wish  lived  in  his  heart  to  the 
last;  but  his  feeble  hand  could  not  put  into  literary  form 
the  tribute  his  heart  had  called  for  and  his  brain  had  al 
ready  fashioned.  His  last  literary  work  was  to  begin  the 
review.  It  was  left  unfinished.  Only  the  following  few 
lines  were  written: 

Poems  of  Henry  Timrod. — One  of  the  truest  and  tenderest 
poets  of  America  was  Henry  Timrod  of  South  Carolina. 
Yet  he  was  so  little  known  in  the  brief  season  of  his  song- 

*  Among  the  group  of  Virginia  poets  who  wrote  of  the  early  battles 
on  Virginia  soil  John  R.  Thompson  and  Mrs.  Preston  stand  out  as 
the  most  conspicuous.  Of  distinctly  higher  quality  than  the  crude 
rhymes  already  referred  to  were  Thompson's  humorous  poems  on 
some  of  the  earlier  Southern  victories.  His  On  to  Richmond,  modelled 
on  Southey's  March  to  Moscow,  is  an  exceedingly  clever  poem.  His 
mastery  of  double  and  triple  rhymes,  his  unfailing  sense  of  the 
value  of  words,  and  his  happy  use  of  the  refrain  ("the  pleasant  ex 
cursion  to  Richmond"),  make  this  poem  one  of  the  marked  achieve 
ments  of  the  period.  Scarcely  less  successful  in  their  brilliant  satire 
are  his  Fareioett  to  Pope,  England's  Neutrality,  and  The  Deril's  Df- 
lighi. — Cambridge  History  of  American  Literature,  II,  305  (1918). 


Ixii  BIOGRAPHY 

burst,  and  his  exquisite  poems  have  heretofore  been  con 
fined  to  so  narrow  a  range  of  sympathy  and  admiration, 
that  we  doubt  not  that  many  a  reader  of  this  notice  of  his 
works  will  see  his  name  for  the  first  time,  and  think  it  a 
literary  pseudonym. 

The  rest  of  the  page  is  blank.  Silence  holds  the  con 
clusion.  Here  the  pen  fell  from  the  failing  hand.  The 
heart  had  more  to  say,  but  the  hand  could  not.  What 
beauty  hi  that  devotion  to  a  friend!  What  pathos  in  the 
silence  that  fell  upon  the  poet  while  his  hand  was  lifted  to 
place  a  sprig  of  laurel  upon  the  grave  of  his  brother ! 

JOHN  S.  PATTON. 


POEMS  OF 
JOHN  R.  THOMPSON 


LEE  TO  THE  REAR 

AN   INCIDENT    IN   THE   BATTLE   OF   THE    WILDERNESS 

DAWN  of  a  pleasant  morning  in  May 
Broke  through  the  wilderness  cool  and  grey, 
While,  perched  in  the  tallest  tree-tops,  the  birds 
Were  carolling  Mendelssohn's  "Songs  Without  Words." 

Far  from  the  haunts  of  men  remote, 
The  brook  brawled  on  with  a  liquid  note, 
And  Nature,  all  tranquil  and  lovely,  wore 
The  smile  of  the  spring,  as  in  Eden  of  yore. 

Little  by  little  as  daylight  increased, 

And  deepened  the  roseate  flush  in  the  east — 

Little  by  little  did  morning  reveal 

Two  long,  glittering  lines  of  steel; 

WTiere  two  hundred  thousand  bayonets  gleam, 
Tipped  with  the  light  of  the  earliest  beam, 
And  the  faces  are  sullen  and  grim  to  see, 
In  the  hostile  armies  of  Grant  and  Lee. 

All  of  a  sudden,  ere  rose  the  sun, 
Pealed  on  the  silence  the  opening  gun — 
A  little  white  puff  of  smoke  there  came, 
And  anon  the  valley  was  wreathed  in  flame. 

Down  on  the  left  of  the  rebel  lines, 

Where  a  breastwork  stands  in  a  copse  of  pines, 

Before  the  rebels  their  ranks  can  form, 

The  Yankees  have  carried  the  place  by  storm. 

1 


2  LEE  TO  THE  REAR 

Stars  and  Stripes  on  the  salient  wave, 

Where  many  a  hero  has  found  a  grave, 

And  the  gallant  Confederates  strive  in  vain 

The  ground  they  have  drenched  with  their  blood  to  regain ! 

Yet  louder  the  thunder  of  battle  roared — 
Yet  a  deadlier  fire  on  the  columns  poured — 
Slaughter  infernal  rode  with  despair, 
Furies  twain,  through  the  murky  air. 

Not  far  off  in  the  saddle  there  sat 
A  grey-bearded  man  in  a  black  slouched  hat; 
Not  much  moved  by  the  fire  was  he, 
Calm  and  resolute  Robert  Lee. 

Quick  and  watchful  he  kept  his  eye 
On  the  bold  rebel  brigades  close  by, — 
Reserves,  that  were  standing  (and  dying)  at  ease, 
While  the  tempest  of  wrath  toppled  over  the  trees. 

For  still  with  their  loud,  deep,  bull-dog  bay, 
The  Yankee  batteries  blazed  away, 
And  with  every  murderous  second  that  sped 
A  dozen  brave  fellows,  alas !  fell  dead. 

The  grand  old  grey-beard  rode  to  the  space 
Where  death  and  his  victims  stood  face  to  face, 
And  silently  waved  his  old  slouched  hat — 
A  world  of  meaning  there  was  in  that! 

"Follow  me!    Steady!    We'll  save  the  day!" 
This  was  what  he  seemed  to  say; 
And  to  the  light  of  his  glorious  eye 
The  bold  brigades  thus  made  reply — 


LEE  TO  THE  REAR  3 

"\\Vll  £o  forward,  but  you  must  go  back" — 
And  they  moved  not  an  inch  in  the  perilous  track: 
"Go  to  the  rear,  and  we'll  send  them  to  h— !" 
And  the  sound  of  the  battle  was  lost  in  their  yell. 

Turning  his  bridle,  Robert  Lee 
Rode  to  the  rear.     Like  the  waves  of  the  sea, 
Bursting  the  dikes  in  their  overflow, 
Madly  his  veterans  dashed  on  the  foe. 

And  backward  in  terror  that  foe  was  driven, 
Their  banners  rent  and  their  columns  riven, 
Wherever  the  tide  of  battle  rolled 
Over  the  Wilderness,  wood  and  wold. 

Sunset  out  of  a  crimson  sky 

Streamed  o'er  a  field  of  ruddier  dye, 

And  the  brook  ran  on  with  a  purple  stain, 

From  the  blood  of  ten  thousand  foemen  slam. 

Seasons  have  passed  since  that  day  and  year — 
Again  o'er  its  pebbles  the  brook  runs  clear, 
And  the  field  in  a  richer  green  is  drest 
Where  the  dead  of  a  terrible  conflict  rest. 

Hushed  is  the  roll  of  the  rebel  drum, 

The  sabres  are  sheathed,  and  the  cannon  are  dumb, 

And  Fate,  with  his  pitiless  hand,  has  furled 

The  flag  that  once  challenged  the  gaze  of  the  world; 

But  the  fame  of  the  Wilderness  fight  abides; 

And  down  into  history  grandly  rides, 

Calm  and  unmoved  as  in  battle  he  sat, 

The  grey-bearded  man  in  the  black  slouched  hat. 


THE  BURIAL  OF  LATANE  ' 

THE  combat  raged  not  long,  but  ours  the  day; 

And  through  the  hosts  that  compassed  us  around 
Our  little  band  rode  proudly  on  its  way, 

Leaving  one  gallant  comrade,  glory-crowned, 
Unburied  on  the  field  he  died  to  gain, 
Single  of  all  his  men  amid  the  hostile  slain. 

One  moment  on  the  battle's  edge  he  stood, 
Hope's  halo  like  a  helmet  round  his  hair, 

The  next  beheld  him,  dabbled  in  his  blood, 
Prostrate  in  death,  and  yet  in  death  how  fair! 

Even  thus  he  passed  through  the  red  gate  of  strife, 

From  earthly  crowns  and  palms  to  an  immortal  life. 

A  brother  bore  his  body  from  the  field 

And  gave  it  unto  stranger  hands  that  closed 

The  calm,  blue  eyes  on  earth  forever  sealed, 
And  tenderly  the  slender  limbs  composed: 

Strangers,  yet  sisters,  who  with  Mary's  love, 

Sat  by  the  open  tomb  and  weeping  looked  above. 

A  little  child  strewed  roses  on  his  bier, 

Pale  roses  not  more  stainless  than  his  soul, 

Nor  yet  more  fragrant  than  his  life  sincere 

That  blossomed  with  good  actions,  brief  but  whole; 

The  aged  matron  and  the  faithful  slave 

Approached  with  reverent  feet  the  hero's  lowly  grave. 

1  The  superior  figure  here,  and  those  occurring  hereafter,  refer  to 
Notes,  pages  237-244. 

4 


THE  BURIAL  OP  LATAN6  / 

No  man  of  God  might  say  the  burial  rile 
Above  the  "rebel" — thus  declared  the  foe 

That  blanched  before  him  in  the  deadly  fight, 
But  woman's  voice,  in  accents  soft  and  low, 

Trembling  with  pity,  touched  with  pathos,  read 

Over  his  hallowed  dust  the  ritual  for  the  dead. 

'  'Tis  sown  in  weakness,  it  is  raised  in  power," 

Softly  the  promise  floated  on  the  air, 
And  the  sweet  breathings  of  the  sunset  hour 

Came  back  responsive  to  the  mourner's  prayer: 
Gently  they  laid  Mm  underneath  the  sod, 
And  left  him  with  his  fame,  his  country,  and  his  God. 

Let  us  not  weep  for  him  whose  deeds  endure, 

So  young,  so  brave,  so  beautiful,  he  died, 
As  he  had  wished  to  die;  the  past  is  sure, 

Whatever  yet  of  sorrow  may  betide 
Those  who  still  linger  on  the  stormy  shore. 
Change  cannot  harm  him  now  nor  fortune  touch  him  more. 

And  when  Virginia,  leaning  on  her  spear, 

Victrix  et  vidua,1  the  conflict  done, 
Shall  raise  her  mailed  liand  to  wipe  the  tear 

That  starts  as  she  recalls  each  martyred  son, 
No  prouder  memory  her  breast  shall  sway 
Than  thine,  our  early-lost,  lamented  Latane. 


ASHBY 

To  the  brave  all  homage  render, 

Weep,  ye  skies  of  June! 
With  a  radiance  pure  and  tender, 

Shine,  oh  saddened  moon! 
Dead  upon  the  field  of  glory, 
Hero  fit  for  song  and  story, 

Lies  OUT  bold  dragoon. 

Well  they  learned,  whose  hands  have  slain  him, 

Braver,  knightlier  foe 
Never  fought  with  Moor  nor  Paynim — 

Rode  at  Templestowe; 
With  a  mien  how  high  and  joyous, 
'Gainst  the  hordes  that  would  destroy  us 

Went  he  forth,  we  know. 

Nevermore,  alas  !   shall  sabre 

Gleam  around  his  crest; 
Fought  his  fight,  fulfilled  his  labour; 

Stilled  his  manly  breast: 
All  unheard  sweet  nature's  cadence, 
Trump  of  fame  and  voice  of  maidens: 

Now  he  takes  his  rest. 

Earth,  that  all  too  soon  hath  bound  him, 

Gently  wrap  his  clay, 
Linger  lovingly  around  him, 

Light  of  dying  day, 
6 


ASHHY 

Softly  fall  the  summer  showers, 
Birds  and  bees  among  the  flown- - 
Make  the  gloom  seem  gay. 

There,  throughout  the  coming  ages, 

When  his  sword  is  rust 
And  his  deeds  in  classic  pages, 

Mindful  of  her  trust, 
Shall  Virginia,  bending  lowly, 
Still  a  ceaseless  vigil  holy 

Keep  above  his  dust! 


GENERAL  J.  E.  B.  STUART  3 

WE  could  not  pause,  while  yet  the  noontide  air 
Shook  with  the  cannonade's  incessant  pealing, 

The  funeral  pageant  fitly  to  prepare, 
A  nation's  grief  revealing. 

The  smoke,  above  the  glimmering  woodland  wide 
That  skirts  our  southward  border  with  its  beauty 

Marked  where  our  heroes  stood  and  fought  and  died 
For  love  and  faith  and  duty. 

And  still,  what  time  the  doubtful  strife  went  on, 
We  might  not  find  expression  for  our  sorrow, 

We  could  but  lay  our  dear,  dumb  warrior  down, 
And  gird  us  for  the  morrow. 

One  weary  year  ago,  when  came  a  lull, 

With  victory,  in  the  conflict's  stormy  closes, 

When  the  glad  spring,  all  flushed  and  beautiful, 
First  mocked  us  with  her  roses, 

With  dirge  and  minute-gun  and  bell  we  paid 
Some  few  poor  rites,  an  inexpressive  token 

Of  a  great  people's  pain,  to  Jackson's  shade, 
In  agony  unspoken. 

No  wailing  trumpet  and  no  tolling  bell, 

No  cannon,  save  the  battle's  boom  receding, 

When  Stuart  to  the  grave  we  bore,  might  tell 
Of  hearts  all  crushed  and  bleeding. 
8 


GENERAL  J.  E.   B.  STUART 

The  crisis  suited  not  with  pomp,  and  she 

Whose  anguish  bears  the  seal  of  consecration, 

Had  wished  his  Christian  obsequies  should  be 
Thus  void  of  ostentation. 

Only  the  maidens  came  sweet  flow'rs  to  twine 

Above  his  form  so  still  and  cold  and  painless, 
Whose  deeds  upon  our  brightest  records  shine, 
life  and  sword  were  stainless. 


They  well  remembered  how  he  loved  to  dash 
Into  the  fight,  festooned  from  summer  bowers, 

How  like  a  fountain's  spray  his  sabre's  flash 
Leaped  from  a  mass  of  flowers. 

And  so  we  carried  to  his  place  of  rest 
All  that  of  our  great  Paladin  was  mortal, 

The  cross,  and  not  the  sabre,  on  his  breast, 
That  opes  the  heavenly  portal. 

No  more  of  tribute  might  to  us  remain  — 

But  there  will  come  a  time  when  Freedom's  martyrs 

A  richer  guerdon  of  renown  shall  gain 
Than  gleams  in  stars  and  garters. 

I  claim  no  prophet's  vision,  but  I  see 

Through  coming  years,  now  near  at  liand,  now  distant, 
My  rescued  country,  glorious  and  free, 

And  strong  and  self-existent. 

I  hear  from  out  that  sunlit  land  which  lies 

Beyond  these  clouds  that  gather  darkly  o'er  us 

The  happy  sounds  of  industry  arise 
In  swelling,  peaceful  chorus. 


10  GENERAL  J.  E.  B.  STUART 

And  mingling  with  these  sounds,  the  glad  acclaim 
Of  millions,  undisturbed  by  war's  afflictions, 

Crowning  each  martyr's  never-dying  name 
With  grateful  benedictions. 

In  some  fair  future  garden  of  delights, 

Where  flowers  shall  bloom  and  song-birds  sweetly  warble, 
Art  shall  erect  the  statues  of  our  knights 

In  living  bronze  and  marble. 

And  none  of  all  that  bright,  heroic  throng 

Shall  wear  to  far-off  time  a  semblance  grander, 

Shall  still  be  decked  with  fresher  wreaths  of  song, 
Than  the  beloved  commander. 

The  Spanish  legend  tells  us  of  the  Cid 

That  after  death  he  rode  erect,  sedately 
Along  his  lines,  even  as  in  life  he  did, 

In  presence  yet  more  stately; 

And  thus  our  Stuart  at  this  moment  seems 
To  ride  out  of  our  dark  and  troubled  story 

Into  the  region  of  romance  and  dreams, 
A  realm  of  light  and  glory. 

And  sometimes,  when  the  silver  bugles  blow, 

That  radiant  form,  in  battle  re-appearing, 
Shall  lead  his  horsemen  headlong  on  the  foe, 

In  victory  careering ! 


THE  BATTLE  RAINBOW 

On  the  evening  before  the  battles  before  Richmond,  a  magnificent 
rainbow,  following  a  thunder-storm,  overspread  the  eastern  sky, 
exactly  defining  the  position  of  the  Confederate  Army,  as  seen  from 
the  Capitol. 

THE  warm,  weary  day  was  departing,  the  smile 
Of  the  sunset  gave  token  the  tempest  had  ceased, 

And  the  lightning  yet  fitfully  gleamed  for  awhile 
On  the  cloud  that  sank  sullen  and  dark  in  the  east, 

There  our  army,  awaiting  the  terrible  fight 

Of  the  morrow,  lay  hopeful  and  watchful  and  still; 

Where  their  tents  all  the  region  liad  sprinkled  with  white 
From  river  to  river,  o'er  meadow  and  hill. 

While  above  them  the  fierce  cannonade  of  the  sky 

Blazed  and  burst  from  the  vapours  that  muffled  the  sun, 

Their  "counterfeit  clamours"  gave  forth  no  reply, 
And  slept  till  the  battle,  the  charge  in  each  gun, 

When  lo !    on  the  cloud  a  miraculous  thing ! 

Broke  in  beauty  the  rainbow  our  hosts  to  enfold; 
The  centre  o'erspread  by  its  arch  and  each  wing 

Suffused  with  its  azure  and  crimson  and  gold. 

Blest  omen  of  victory,  symbol  divine 

Of  peace  after  tumult,  repose  after  pain, 
How  sweet  and  how  glowing  with  promise  the  sign 

To  eyes  that  should  never  behold  it  again ! 
11 


12  THE  BATTLE  RAINBOW 

For  the  fierce  flame  of  war  on  the  morrow  flashed  out, 
And  its  thunder  peals  filled  all  the  tremulous  air; 

Over  slippery  entrenchment  and  reddened  redoubt 
Rang  the  wild  cheer  of  triumph,  the  cry  of  despair. 

Then  a  long  week  of  glory  and  agony  came, 
Of  mute  supplication  and  yearning  and  dread; 

When  day  unto  day  gave  the  record  of  fame, 
And  night  unto  night  gave  the  list  of  its  dead. 

We  had  triumphed ! — the  foe  had  fled  back  to  his  ships, 
His  standards  in  rags  and  his  legions  a  wreck, 

But  alas !    the  stark  faces,  and  colourless  lips 

Of  our  loved  ones  gave  triumph's  rejoicing  a  check. 

Not  yet,  oh,  not  yet,  as  a  sign  of  release, 

Had  the  Lord  set  in  mercy  his  bow  in  the  cloud, 

Not  yet  had  the  Comforter  whispered  of  peace 

To  the  hearts  that  around  us  lay  bleeding  and  bowed. 

But  the  promise  was  given  .  .  .  the  beautiful  arc, 
With  its  brilliant  confusion  of  colors,  that  spanned 

The  sky  on  that  exquisite  eve,  was  the  mark 
Of  the  Infinite  Love  overarching  the  land  .  .  . 

And  that  Love,  shining  richly  and  full  as  the  day, 

Through  the  tear-drops  that  moisten  each  martyr's  proud 
pall, 

On  the  gloom  of  the  past  the  bright  bow  shall  display 
Of  Freedom,  Peace,  Victory,  bent  over  all. 


MUSIC  IN  CAMP 

Two  armies  covered  hill  and  plain. 

\Yhere  Rappahannock's  waters 
Ran  deeply  crimsoned  with  the  stain 

Of  battle's  recent  slaughters. 

The  summer  clouds  lay  pitched  like  tents 

In  meads  of  heavenly  azure; 
And  each  dread  gun  of  the  elements 

Slept  hi  its  hid  embrasure. 

The  breeze  so  softly  blew  it  made 

No  forest  leaf  to  quiver, 
And  the  smoke  of  the  random  cannonade 

Rolled  slowly  from  the  river. 

And  now  where  circling  hills  looked  down 

With  cannon  grimly  planted, 
O'er  listless  camp  and  silent  town, 

The  golden  sunset  slanted. 

When  on  the  fervid  air  there  came 
A  strain,  now  rich,  now  tender, 

The  music  seemed  itself  aflame, 
With  day's  departing  splendor. 

A  Federal  band,  which  eve  and  morn 
Played  measures  brave  and  nimble, 

Had  just  struck  up  with  flute  and  horn 
And  lively  clash  of  cymbal. 
18 


14  MUSIC  IN  CAMP 

Down  flocked  the  soldiers  to  the  banks 
Till,  margined  by  its  pebbles, 

One  wooded  shore  was  blue  with  "Yanks," 
And  one  was  gray  with  "Rebels." 

Then  all  was  still,  and  then  the  band 
With  movements  light  and  tricksy, 

Made  stream  and  forest,  hill  and  strand, 
Reverberate  with  "Dixie." 

The  conscious  stream,  with  burnished  glow, 
Went  proudly  o'er  its  pebbles, 

But  thrilled  throughout  its  deepest  flow 
With  yelling  of  the  Rebels. 

Again  a  pause,  and  then  again 
The  trumpet  pealed  sonorous, 

And  "Yankee  Doodle"  was  the  strain 
To  which  the  shore  gave  chorus. 

The  laughing  ripple  shoreward  flew 
To  kiss  the  shining  pebbles, 

Loud  shrieked  the  crowding  Boys  in  Blue 
Defiance  to  the  Rebels. 

And  yet  once  more  the  bugle  sang 

Above  the  stormy  riot; 
No  shout  upon  the  evening  rang, 

There  reigned  a  holy  quiet. 

The  sad  slow  stream  its  noiseless  flood 
Poured  o'er  the  glistening  pebbles; 

All  silent  now  the  Yankee  stood, 
And  silent  stood  the  Rebels. 


MUSIC  IN  CAMP  15 

No  unresponsive  soul  hail  heard 

That  plaintive  note's  appealing, 
So  deeply  "Home,  Sweet  Home,"  had  stirred 

The  hidden  founts  of  feeling. 

Or  Blue  or  Gray  the  soldier  sees, 

As  by  the  wand  of  fairy, 
The  cottage  'neath  the  live-oak  trees, 

The  cabin  by  the  prairie. 

Or  cold  or  warm  his  native  skies 

Bend  in  their  beauty  o'er  him; 
Seen  through  the  tear-mist  in  his  eyes, 

His  loved  ones  stand  before  him. 

As  fades  the  iris  after  rain 

In  April's  tearful  weather, 
The  vision  vanished  as  the  strain 

And  daylight  died  together. 

But  Memory,  waked  by  Music's  art, 

Exprest  in  simplest  numbers, 
Subdued  the  sternest  Yankee's  heart, 

Made  light  the  Rebel's  slumbers. 

And  fair  the  form  of  Music  shines,  .-f 

That  bright,  celestial  creature, 
Who  still  'mid  War's  embattled  lines 

Gave  this  one  touch  of  Nature. 


ON  TO  RICHMOND 

[AFTER  SOUTHEY'S  "MARCH  TO  MOSCOW"] 

MAJOR-GENERAL  SCOTT 

An  order  had  got 
To  push  on  the  column  to  Richmond; 

For  loudly  went  forth 

From  all  parts  of  the  North 
The  cry  that  an  end  of  the  war  must  be  made 
In  time  for  the  regular  yearly  Fall  Trade: 
Mr.  Greeley  spoke  freely  about  the  delay, 
The  Yanks  "to  hum"  were  all  hot  for  the  fray; 

The  chivalrous  Grow 

Declared  they  were  slow — 

And  therefore  the  order 

To  march  from  the  border 
And  to  make  an  excursion  to  Richmond. 

Major-General  Scott 

Most  likely  was  not 
Very  loth  to  obey  this  instruction,  I  wot; 

In  his  private  opinion 

The  Ancient  Dominion 

Deserved  to  be  pillaged,  her  sons  to  be  shot, 
And  the  reason  is  easily  noted; 

Though  this  part  of  the  earth 

Had  given  him  birth 

And  medals  and  swords 

Inscribed  in  fine  words, 
It  never  for  Winfield  had  voted. 

Besides,  you  must  know,  that  our  First  of  Commanders 
Had  sworn  quite  as  hard  as  the  Army  in  Flanders, 
16 


ON  TO  RICHMOND  17 

With  his  finest  of  armies  and  proudest  of  navie-,. 
To  wrack  his  old  grudge  against  Jefferson  Davis. 
Then,  "Forward  the  column,"  he  said  to  McDowell; 
And  the  Zouaves,  with  a  shout, 
Most  fiercely  cried  out, 

"To  Richmond  or  h— 11!"  (I  omit  here  the  vowel), 
And  Winfield  he  ordered  his  carriage  and  four, 
A  dashing  turn-out,  to  be  brought  to  the  door, 
For  a  pleasant  excursion  to  Richmond. 

Major-General  Scott 

Had  there  on  the  spot 

A  splendid  array 

To  plunder  and  slay; 

In  the  camp  lie  might  boast 

Such  a  numerous  host 

As  he  never  had  yet 

In  the  battle-field  set; 

Every  class  and  condition  of  Northern  society 
\\Vre  in  for  the  trip,  a  most  varied  variety: 
In  the  camp  he  might  hear  every  lingo  in  vogue, 
"The  sweet  German  accent,  the  rich  Irish  brogue." 

The  buthiful  boy 

From  the  banks  of  the  Shannon 

Was  there  to  employ 

His  excellent  cannon; 
And  besides  the  long  files  of  dragoons  and  artillery. 

The  Zouaves  and  Hussars, 

All  the  children  of  Mars — 

There  were  barbers  and  cooks, 

And  writers  of  books — 

The  chef  de  cuisine  with  his  French  bill  of  fare, 
And  the  artists  to  dress  the  young  officers'  hair. 
And  the  scribblers  were  ready  at.  once  to  prepare 


18  ON  TO  RICHMOND 

An  eloquent  story 

Of  conquest  and  glory; 

And  servants  with  numberless  baskets  of  Sillery, 
Though  Wilson  the  Senator  followed  the  train, 
At  a  distance  quite  safe,  to  "conduct  the  champagne;" 
While  the  fields  were  so  green  and  the  sky  was  so  blue 
There  was  certainly  nothing  more  pleasant  to  do, 
On  this  pleasant  excursion  to  Richmond. 

In  Congress  the  talk,  as  I  said,  was  of  action, 
To  crush  out  instanter  the  traitorous  faction. 

In  the  press,  and  the  mess, 

They  would  hear  nothing  less 

Than  to  make  the  advance,  spite  of  rhyme  or  of  reason, 
And  at  once  put  an  end  to  the  insolent  treason. 

There  was  Greeley 

And  Ely, 

And  bloodthirtsy  Grow, 

And  Hickman  (the  rowdy,  not  Hickman  the  beau), 
And  that  terrible  Baker 
Who  would  seize  on  the  South  every  acre, 
And  Webb,  who  would  drive  us  all  into  the  Gulf,  or 
Some  nameless  locality  smelling  of  sulphur; 

And  with  all  this  bold  crew 

Nothing  would  do, 

While  the  fields  were  so  green,  and  the  sky  was  so  blue, 
But  to  march  on  directly  to  Richmond. 

Then  the  gallant  McDowell 

Drove  madly  the  rowel 
Of  spur  that  had  never  been  "won"  by  him 

In  the  flank  of  his  steed 

To  accomplish  a  deed 
Such  as  never  before  had  been  done  by  him; 


ON  TO  RICHMOND  19 

And  the  batten-  railed  Sherman's 

Was  wheeled  into  line. 
While  the  beer-drinking  (iermans 

From  Neckar  and  Rhine, 
With  ininic  and  yager 
Came  on  with  a  swagger, 
Full  of  fury  and  lager, 

(The  day  and  the  pageant   were  equally  fine). 
Oh,  the  fields  were  so  green,  and  the  sky  was  so  blue, 
Indeed  'twas  a  speetaelc  pleasant  to  view, 
As  the  column  pushed  onward  to  Richmond. 

Ere  the  march  was  begun, 

In  a  spirit  of  fun, 

General  Scott  in  a  speech 

Said  the  army  would  teach 
The  Southrons  the  lesson  the  laws  to  obey, 
And  just  before  dusk  of  the  third  or  fourth  day, 
Should  joyfully  march  into  Richmond. 

He  spoke  of  their  drill 

And  their  courage  and  skill, 

And  declared  that  the  ladies  of  Richmond  would  rave 
O'er  such  matchless  perfection,  and  gracefully  wave 
In  rapture  then*  delicate  kerchiefs  in  air 
At  then:  morning  parades  on  the  Capitol  Square. 

But  alack !   and  alas  ! 

Mark  what  soon  came  to  pass, 
When  this  army,  in  spite  of  his  flatteries, 

Amid  war's  loudest  thunder. 

Must  stupidly  blunder 
Upon  those  accursed  "masked  batteries." 


20  ON  TO  RICHMOND 

Then  Beauregard  came 

Like  a  tempest  of  flame 

To  consume  them  in  wrath 

In  their  perilous  path; 
And  Johnston  bore  down  in  a  whirlwind,  to  sweep 

Their  ranks  from  the  field 

Where  their  doom  had  been  sealed, 
And  the  storm  rushes  over  the  face  of  the  deep; 
While  swift  on  the  centre  our  President  pressed, 

And  the  foe  might  descry 

In  the  glance  of  his  eye 
The  light  that  once  blazed  upon  Diomed's  crest. 

McDowell !    McDowell !   weep,  weep  for  the  day 
When  the  Southrons  you  met  in  then*  battle  array; 
To  your  confident  hosts  with  its  bullets  and  steel 
'Twas  worse  than  Culloden  to  luckless  Lochiel. 
Oh,  the  generals  were  green,  and  old  Scott  is  now  blue, 
And  a  terrible  business,  McDowell,  to  you 
Was  that  pleasant  excursion  to  Richmond. 


OLD   ABE'S  MESSAGE,  JULY  4.  1861 

ONCK  more.  Representatives,  Senators, — all— 

You  come  to  my  capital  swift  at  my  call, 

'Tis   well,   for  you've  something   important  to  do, 

In  this  most  disagreeable  national  stew; 

For  since  I  came  hither  to  run  the  machine, 

Disguised  in  a  Scotch  cap  and  full  Lincoln  green, 

There's  the  devil  to  pay  in  the  whole  blame  concern, 

As  from  Cameron  and  Seward  and  Chase  you  will  learn, 

And  while  everything  here  of  a  bust-up  gives  warning 

I'm  certain  you'll  put  it  all  right  in  the  morning; 

So  to  do  as  I  tell  you  be  on  the  alert, 

For  the  panic's  fictitious  and  nobody's  hurt. 

I've  started  no  war  of  invasion,  you  know, 

Let  who  will  pretend  to  deny  it — that's  so; 

But  I  saw  from  the  White  House  an  impudent  rag, 

Which  they  told  me  was  known  as  Jeff  Davis's  flag, 

Waving  above  my  Alexandria  high, 

Insulting  my  government,  flouting  the  sky, 

Above  my  Alexandria,  isn't  it,  Bates, 

Retrocession's  a  humbug — what  rights  have  the  States? 

So  I  ordered  young  Ellsworth  to  take  the  rag  down, 

Mrs.  Lincoln  she  wanted  it  to  make  a  new  gown; 

But  young  Ellsworth  he  "kinder"  got  shot  in  the  ra« -e. 

And  came  back  in  a  galvanized-burial  case. 

But,  then,  Jackson,  the  scoundrel,  he  got  his  desert, 

For  the  panic's  fictitious  and  nobody's  hurt. 

'Tis  true,  I  sent  steamers  \\hieh  tried  for  a  \\eek 
To  silence  the  Rebels  down  here  at  the  creek; 
21 


22  OLD  ABE'S  MESSAGE,  JULY  4,   1861 

But  they  had  at  Game  Point  about  fifty  or  more 

Rifled  cannon  set  up  in  a  line  on  the  shore, 

And  six  thousand  Confederates  practised  to  fire  'em; 

Confound  these  Virginians,  you  never  can  tire  'em, 

For  they  made  game  of  our  shooting  and  crippled  our  fleet, 

So  we  prudently  ordered  a  hasty  retreat; 

With  decks  full  of  passengers, — dead-heads  indeed, 

For  whom  of  fresh  coffins  there  straightway  was  need; 

And  still  later  at  Mathias's  they  killed  Captain  Ward 

In  command  of  the  Freeborn — ah!  'tis  mighty  hard; 

But  in  spite  of  all  this  the  rebellion's  a  spurt, 

For  the  panic's  fictitious,  and  nobody's  hurt. 

Herewith  1  beg  leave  to  submit  the  report 

Of  Butler,  the  general,  concerning  the  sport 

They  had  at  "Great  Bethel,"  near  Fortress  Monroe, 

With  Hill  and  Magruder  some  four  weeks  ago; 

And  here,  let  me  say,  a  more  reckless  intruder 

I  never  have  known  than  this  General  Magruder; 

For  he's  taken  the  "Comfort"  away  from  Old  Point, 

And  thrown  our  peninsula  plans  out  of  joint; 

While,  hi  matters  of  warfare,  to  him  General  Butler 

Would  scarcely  be  thought  worthy  to  act  as  a  sutler, 

And  that  insolent  Rebel  will  call  to  our  faces 

The  flight  at  "Great  Bethel"  the  "Newmarket  Races;" 

Then  supersede  Butler  at  once  with  whoever 

Can  drive  this  Magruder  clean  into  the  river; 

And  I  shall  be  confident  still  to  assert, 

That  the  panic's  fictitious  and  nobody's  hurt. 

'Tis  my  province  herein — briefly  to  state, 
The  state  of  my  provinces  surely  of  late, 
Missouri  and  Maryland— one  has  the  paw 
Of  my  Lion  upon  her,  and  one  has  the  law 


OLD  ABE'S  MESSAGE.  JULY  4.   1861  23 

("ailed  martial  proclaimed   thro'  IHT  borders  and  cities. 

Roth  are  crushed,  a  big  thing,  I  make  hold  t<>  say  it  is; 

St.   Louis  is  silent  and   Baltimore  dumb, 

They  hear  but  the  monotone  roll  of  my  drum. 

In  the  latter  vile  seaport  I  ordered  Cad \vallader 

To  manacle  freedom  and  through  the  crowd  follow  her. 

Locked  up  in  McIIenry,  she's  safe  it  is  plain, 

With  Merryman,  habeas  corpus,  and  Kane; 

And  as  for  that  crabbed  old  dotard,  Judge  Taney, 

For  much  I  would  put  him  on  board  the  Pawnee, 

And  make  his  decisions  a  little  more  curt; 

For  the  panic's  fictitious  and  nobody's  hurt. 

And  now  I'll  just  tell  you  what  I'll  have  you  to  do, 
In  order  to  put  your  new  President  through; 
First,  three  hundred  millions  wanted  by  Chase, 
He  cannot  run  longer  the  government's  face, 
And  Cameron  wants  for  the  use  of  Old  Scott 
About  five  hundred  thousand  more  men  than  he's  got, 
And  sixty  new  iron-plate  ships  to  stand  shells 
Are  loudly  demanded,  must  have  'em,  by  Welles; 
For  England,  the  bully,  can't  stand  our  blockade, 
And  insists  that  we  shall  not  embarrass  her  trade; 
But  who  fears  the  British?     I'll  speedily  tune  'em, 
As  sure  as  my  name  is  Epluribus  Unum; 
For  I  am  myself  the  whole  United  States, 
Constitution  and  laws;    if  you  doubt  it,  ask  Bates; 
The  Star  Spangled  banner's  my  holiday  shirt; 
Hurrah  for  Abe  Lincoln,  there's  nobody  hurt. 


ENGLAND'S  NEUTRALITY 

A    PARLIAMENTARY   DEBATE 

ALL  ye  who  with  credulity  the  whispers  hear  of  fancy, 
Or  yet  pursue  with  eagerness  Hope's  wild  extravagancy, 
Who  dream  that  England  soon  will  drop  her  long  miscalled 

Neutrality 
And  give  us,  with  a  hearty  shake,  the  hand  of  Nationality, 

Read,  as  we  give,  with  little  fault  of  statement  or  omis 
sion, 

The  next  debate  in  Parliament  on  Southern  Recognition; 

They're  all  so  much  alike,  indeed,  that  one  can  write  it  off, 
I  see, 

As  truly  as  the  Times  report  without  the  gift  of  prophecy. 

Not  yet,  not  yet  to  interfere  does  England  see  occasion, 
But  treats  our  good  commissioner  with  coldness  and  eva 
sion; 

Such  coldness  in  the  premises  that  really  'tis  refrigerant 
To  think  that  two  long  years  ago  she  called  us  a  belliger 
ent. 

But  further  Downing  Street  is  dumb,  the  Premier  deaf  to 

reason, 

As  deaf  as  is  the  Morning  Post,  both  in  and  out  of  season: 
The  working  men  of  Lancashire  are  all  reduced  to  beggary, 
And  yet  they  will  not  listen  unto  Roebuck  or  to  Gregory, 

"Or  any  other  man,"  today,  who  counsels  interfering, 
While  all  who  speak  on  t'other  side  obtain  a  ready  hearing — 
As  per  example  Mr.  Bright,  that  pink  of  all  propriety, 
That  meek  and  mild  disciple  of  the  blessed  Peace  Society. 

24 


ENGLAND'S  NEUTRALITY  25 

"Why,  let  'em  fight,"  says  Mr.  Bright,  "those  Southerners 

I  hate  'em, 

I  hope  the  Black  Republicans  will  soon  exterminate  'em; 
If  Freedom  can't  Rebellion  crush,  pray  tell  me  what's  the 

use  of  her?" 
And  so  he  chuckles  o'er  the  fray  as  gleefully  as  Lucifer. 

Km  nigh  of  him;  an  abler  man  demands  our  close  attention — 
The  Maximus  Apollo  of  strict  Non  Intervention. 
With  pitiless  severity,  though  decorus  and  calm  his  tone, 
Thus  speaks  the  "old  man  eloquent,"  the  puissant  Earl  of 
Palmerston : 

"What  though  the  land  run  red  with  blood:  what  though 
the  lurid  flashes 

Of  cannon  light  at  dead  of  night  a  mournful  heap  of 
ashes 

Where  many  an  ancient  mansion  stood?  what  though  the 
robber  pillages 

The  sacred  home,  the  house  of  God,  in  twice  a  hundred  vil 
lages  ? 

"What  though  a  fiendish,  nameless  wrong,  that  makes  re 
venge  a  duty 

Is  daily  done"  (O  Lord,  how  long?)  "to  tenderness  and 
beauty?"— 

(And  who  shall  tell  this  deed  of  hell,  how  deadlier  far  a 
curse  it  is 

Than  even  pulling  temples  down  and  burning  universities?) 

"Let  arts  decay,  let  millions  fall,  for  aye  let  Freedom  per 
ish, 

With  all  that  in  the  Western  World  men  fain  would  love 
and  cherish; 


26  ENGLAND'S  NEUTRALITY 

Let  Universal  Ruin  there  become  a  sad  reality: 
We  cannot  swerve,  we  must  preserve  our  rigorous  Neutral 
ity." 

Oh,  Pam !  Oh,  Pam !  hast  ever  read  what's  writ  in  holy 
pages, 

How  blessed  the  Peacemakers  are,  God's  children  of  the 
Ages  ? 

Perhaps  you  think  the  promise  sweet  was  nothing  but  a 
platitude; 

'Tis  clear  that  you  have  no  concern  in  that  divine  beati 
tude. 

But  "hear!  hear!  hear!"  another  peer,  that  mighty  man 
of  muscle, 

Is  on  his  legs,  what  slender  pegs !  ye  noble  Earl  of  Rus 
sell; 

Thus  might  he  speak  did  not  of  speech  his  shrewd  reserve 
the  folly  see, 

And  thus  unfold  the  subtle  plan  of  England's  secret  policy: 

"John  Bright  was  right!  Yes,  let  'em  fight,  these  fools 
across  the  water, 

'Tis  no  affair  at  all  of  ours,  their  carnival  of  slaughter! 

The  Christian  world  indeed  may  say  we  ought  not  to  al 
low  it,  sirs, 

But  still  'tis  music  in  our  ears,  this  roar  of  Yankee  how 
itzers. 

"A  word  or  two  of  sympathy  that  costs  us  not  a  penny 
We  give  the  gallant  Southerners,  the  few  against  the  many; 
We  say  their  noble  fortitude  of  final  triumph  presages, 
And  praise  in  Blackwood's  Magazine,  Jeff  Davis  and  his 
messages — 


ENGLAND'S  NEUTRALITY  27 

"Of  course  we  claim  the  shining  fame  of  glorious  Stonewall 
Jackson, 

\Vho  typifies  the  English  race,  a  sterling  Anglo-Saxon; 

To  bravest  song  his  deeds  belong,  to  Clio  and  Melpo 
mene"  .  .  . 

(And  why  not  for  a  British  stream  demand  the  Chicka- 
hominy  ?) 

"But  for  the  cause  in  which  he  fell  we  cannot  lift  a  finger. 
'Tis  idle  on  the  question  any  longer  here  to  linger; 
Tis  true  the  South  has  freely  bled,  her  sorrows  are  Ho 
meric,  oil ! 
Her  case  is  like  to  his  of  old  who  journeyed  unto  Jericho — 

"The  thieves  have  stripped  and  bruised,  although  as  yet 
they  have  not  bound  her; 

We'd  like  to  see  her  slay  'em  all  to  right  and  left  around  her; 

\\Y  shouldn't  cry  in  Parliament  if  Lee  should  cross  the 
Raritan, 

But  England  never  yet  was  known  to  play  the  Good  Sa 
maritan. 

"And  so  we  pass  to  t'other  side  and  leave  them  to  their 
glory 

To  give  new  proofs  of  manliness,  new  scenes  for  song  and 
story ; 

These  honeyed  words  of  compliment  may  possibly  bam 
boozle  'em, 

But  ere  we  intervene,  you  know,  we'll  see  'em  in — Jerusalem. 

"Yes,  let  'em  fight,  till  both  arc  brought  to  hopeless  deso 

lation, 
Till  wolves  troop  round  tlu-  cottage  door,  in  one  and  t'other 

nation, 


28  ENGLAND'S  NEUTRALITY 

Till,  worn  and  broken  down,  the  South  shall  prove  no  more 

refractory, 
And  rust  eats  up  the  silent  looms  of  every  Yankee  factory — 

"Till  bursts  no  more  the  cotton  boll  o'er  fields  of  Carolina, 
And  fills  with  snowy  flosses  the  dusky  hands  of  Dinah; 
Till  war  has  dealt  its  final  blow,  and   Mr.  Seward's  knav 
ery 
Has  put  an  end  in  all  the  land  to  freedom  and  to  slavery. 

"The  grim  bastile,  the  rack,  the  wheel,  without  remorse  or 

pity, 

May  flourish  with  the  guillotine  in  every  Yankee  city, 
No  matter  should  old  Abe  revive  the  brazen  bull  of  Phal- 

aris, 
'Tis  no  concern  at  all  of  ours" — (sensation  in  the  galleries). 

"So  shall  our  'merrie  England'  thrive  on  trans- Atlantic 
troubles, 

While  India  on  her  distant  plains  her  crop  of  cotton  dou 
bles; 

And  just  so  long  as  North  or  South  shall  show  the  least 
vitality 

We  cannot  swerve,  we  must  preserve  our  rigorous  Neu 
trality." 

Your  speech,  my  lord,  might  well  become  a  Saxon  legis 
lator, 

When  the  "fine  old  English  gentleman"  lived  in  a  state  of 
natur', 

When  vikings  quaffed  from  human  skulls  their  fiery  draughts 
of  honey  mead, 

Long,  long  before  the  barons  bold  met  tyrant  John  at  Run- 
nymede — 


ENGLAND'S  NEUTRALITY  29 

But  'tis  a  speech  so  plain,  my  lord,  that  all  may  under 
stand  it, 

And  so  we  quickly  turn  .again  to  fight  the  Yankee  bandit, 
Convinced  that  we  shall  fairly  win  at  last  our  Nationality 
Without  the  help  of  Britain's  arm — in  spite  of  her  Neu 
trality. 


THE  DEVIL'S  DELIGHT 

To  breakfast  one  morning  the  Devil  came  down, 

By  demons  and  vassals  attended; 
A  headache  had  darkened  his  brow  with  a  frown, 
From  his  orgie  last  night,  or  the  weight  of  his  crown, 

But  his  presence  infernal  was  splendid. 

In  a  robe  of  red  flame  was  Diavolo  dressed, 

Without  smutch  of  a  cinder  to  soil  it; 
Blue  blazes  enveloped  his  throat  and  his  chest, 
While  the  tail,  tied  with  ribbons  as  blue  as  the  vest, 
Completed  his  Majesty's  toilet. 

No  masquerade  devil  of  earth  could  begin, 

With  his  counterfeit  horns  and  his  mock  tail, 
To  look  like  this  model  Original  Sin, 
As  of  lava  and  lightning  and  bitters  and  gin 
He  sat  and  compounded  a  cocktail. 

But  to  give,  in  all  conscience,  the  Devil  his  due, 

He  seemed  sorrowful  rather  than  irate; 
And  his  Majesty  moped  all  the  dejeuner  through, 
With  a  twitch,  now  and  then,  of  the  ribbons  of  blue, 
And  the  look  of  a  penitent  pirate; 

Then  a  smile,  such  as  follows  some  capital  joke 

Of  a  Dickens,  a  Hood,  or  a  Jerrold, 
Sweet,  playful,  and  tender,  all  suddenly  broke 
O'er  the  face  of  Sathanas,  as  turning  he  spoke, 

"Go,  imp!   bring  the  file  of  the  Herald!" 
30 


THE   PEVII/S  DEIJCHT  31 

The  paper  was  brought,  and  Old  Nick  ran  his  eye 

(In  default  of  debates  in  the  Senate) 
Over  crimes,   there  were  plenty,  of  terrible  dye, 
Over  letter  and  telegram,  slander  and  lie. 

And  the  blatherskite  leaders  of  Bennett. 

There  were  frauds  in  high  places,  official  deceit; 

There  were  sins,  we'll  not  name  them,  of  ladies; 
There  were  Mexican  murders  and  murders  in  Crete, 
By  the  thousand,  all  manner  of  villainies  sweet 

To  the  Herald's  subscribers  in  Hades. 

But  the  numberless  horrors  of  every  degree 

Did  not   wholly  dispel  his  dejection; 
"The  Herald's  a  bore,  I'm  aweary,"  says  he; 
Then  uprising,  he  added,  "What's  this?  'Tennessee!' 

By  jingo!    here's  Brownlow's  election! 

"Ho,  varlet!   fill  up  till  the  beaker  runs  o'er!" 
Cried  the  Deil,  growing  joyous  and  frisky; 

A  white-hot  ferruginous  goblet  he  bore, 

And  the  liquor  was  vitriol  "straight,"  which  he  swore 
Was  less  hurtful  than  tanglefoot  whiskey. 

"Fill  up!   let  us  drink,"  said  the  Father  of  Lies, 

"To  the  mortal  whose  claims  are  most  weighty!" 
And  a  light  diabolic  shone  out  of  his  eyes 
That  made  the  thermometer  instantly  rise 
To  fully  five  thousand  and  eighty. 

"I  have  knights  of  the  garter  and  knights  of  the  lance 
Who  shall  surely  hereafter  for  sin  burn; 

I  have  writers  of  history,  ethics,  romance, 

In  England,  America,  Germany,  France, 
And  a  gay  little  poet  in  Swinburne; 


32  THE-  DEVIL'S  DELIGHT 

"Reformers  who  go  in  for  infinite  smash, 

The  widows'  and  orphans'  oppressor; 
D.  Ds.  by  the  dozen,  whose  titles  are  trash, 
To  be  written  with  two  little  d's  and  a  dash; 

And  many  a  Father  Confessor: 

"And  besides  all  the  hypocrites,"  chuckled  the  Deil, 

"Who  serve  me  with  Ave  and  Credo, 
I  have  tyrants  that  murder,  commanders  that  steal, 
Dahomey,  Mouravieff,  Butler,  McNeil, 

Thad  Stevens,  Joe  Holt,  Escobedo: 

"But  the  man  of  all  others  the  most  to  my  mind, 

The  dearest  terrestrial  creature, 
Is  the  blaspheming  priest  and  the  tyrant  combined, 
Who  mocks  at  his  Maker  and  curses  his  kind, 

In  the  garb  of  a  Methodist  preacher. 

"And  so  long  as  of  Darkness  I'm  absolute  Prince, 

From  his  praise  there  shall  be  no  deduction, 
Whose  acts  a  most  exquisite  malice  evince, 
And  whose  government  furnishes  excellent  hints, 
Opportunely  for  HELL'S  RECONSTRUCTION." 

Then  the  Fiend,  with  a  laughter  no  language  may  tell, 

Drained  his  cup,  and  abasing  his  crown  low, 

Cried  "Hip,  hip,  hurrah!"  and  a  boisterous  yell 

Went  round  till  the  nethermost  confines  of  Hell 

Reechoed  "Three  cheers  for  old  Brownlow!" 


A  WORD  WITH  THE  WEST 

[ON   THE    DEPARTURE   OF   GENERAL  JOSEPH    E.    JOHNSTON    FOH 
HIS   WESTERN    COMMAND] 

ONCE  more  to  the  breach  for  the  Land  of  the  West ! 
And  a  leader  we  give  of  our  bravest  and  best, 

Of  his  State  and  his  army  the  pride: 
Hope  shines  like  the  plume  of  Navarre  on  his  crest, 

And  gleams  in  the  glaive  at  his  sidr. 

For  his  courage  is  keen  and  his  honor  is  bright 
As  the  trusty  Toledo  he  wears  to  the  fight, 

Newly  wrought  in  the  forges  of  Spain, 
And  this  weapon1  like  all  he  has  brandished  for  Right 

Will  never  be  dimmed  by  a  stain. 

He  leaves  the  loved  soil  of  Virginia  behind, 
Where  the  dust  of  his  fathers  is  fitly  enshrined, 

Where  lie  the  fresh  fields  of  his  fame; 
Where  the  murmurous  pines  us  they  sway  in  the  wind 

Seem  ever  to  whisper  his  name. 

The  Johnstons  have  always  borne  wings  on  their  spurs, 
And  their  motto  a  noble  distinction  confers: 

"Ever  Ready"  for  friend  or  for  foe — 
With  a  patriot's  fervor  the  sentiment  stirs 

The  large,  manly  heart,  of  our  Joe. 

1  General  Johnston  carries  with  him  a  beautiful  sword  recently  pre- 
>« -ntt -d  to  him,  tearing  the  mark  of  the  Royal  Manufactory  of  Tol<-- 
do,  1862.— J.  R.  T. 

33 


34  A  WORD  WITH  THE  WEST 

We  recall  that  a  former  bold  chief  of  the  clan 
Fell,  bravely  defending  the  West,  hi  the  van, 

On  Shiloh's  illustrious  day; 
And  with  reason  we  reckon  our  Johnston  the  man 

The  dark  bloody  debt  to  repay. 

There  is  much  to  be  done;  if  not  glory  to  seek, 
There's  a  just  and  a  terrible  vengeance  to  wreak 

For  crimes  of  a  terrible  dye, 
While  the  plaint  of  the  helpless,  the  wail  of  the  weak, 

In  a  chorus  rise  up  to  the  sky. 

For  the  Wolf  of  the  North  we  once  drove  to  his  den, 
That  quailed  in  affright  'neath  the  stern  glance  of  men, 

With  his  pack  has  turned  to  the  spoil; 
Then  come  from  the  hamlet,  the  mountain  and  glen, 

And  drive  him  again  from  the  soil. 

Brave-born  Tennesseans  so  loyal,  so  true, 

Who  have  hunted  the  beast  in  your  highlands,  of  you 

Our  leader  had  never  a  doubt; 
You  will  troop  by  the  thousand  the  chase  to  renew 

The  day  that  his  bugles  ring  out. 

But  ye  "Hunters"  so  famed  "of  Kentucky"  of  yore, 
Where,  where  are  the  rifles  that  kept  from  your  door 

The  wolf  and  the  robber  as  well? 
Of  a  truth  you  have  never  been  laggard  before 

To  deal  with  a  savage  so  fell. 

Has  the  love  you  once  bore  to  your  country  grown  cold? 
Has  the  fire  on  the  altar  died  out?    Do  you  hold 

Your  lives  than  your  freedom  more  dear? 
Can  you  shamefully  barter  your  birthright  for  gold, 

Or  basely  take  counsel  of  fear? 


A  WORD   WITH  THE   WEST  86 

We  will  not,  believe  it      Kentucky,  the  land 
Of  a  Clay  will  not  tamely  submit  to  tin-  bnuid 

That  disgraces  the  dastard,  the  slave; 
The  hour  of  redemption  draws  nigh — is  at  hand— 
Her  own  sons  her  own  honor  shall  save! 

Mighty  men  of  Missouri,  come  forth  to  the  call, 
With  the  rush  of  your  rivers  when  the  tempests  appal 

And  the  torrents  their  sources  unseal. 
And  this  be  the  watchword  of  one  and  of  all— 

"Remember  the  butcher,  McNeil!" 

Then  once  more  to  the  breach  for  the  Land  of  the  West! 

Strike  home  for  your  hearths — for  the  lips  you  love  best- 
Follow  on  where  your  leader  you  see; 

One  flash  of  his  sword,  when  the  foe  is  hard  prest, 
And  the  Land  of  the  West  shall  be  Free! 


COERCION: 

A    POEM   FOR   THE   TIMES 

WHO  talks  of  coercion?     Who  dares  to  deny 

A  resolute  people  the  right  to  be  free  ? 
Let  him  blot  out  forever  one  star  from  the  sky 

Or  curb  with  his  fetter  one  wave  of  the  sea. 

Who  prates  of  coercion?     Can  love  be  restored 
To  bosoms  where  only  resentment  may  dwell — 

Can  peace  upon  earth  be  proclaimed  by  the  sword, 
Or  good  will  among  men  be  established  by  shell? 

Shame !    shame  that  the  statesman  and  trickster  forsooth 
Should  have  for  a  crisis  no  other  recourse, 

Beneath  the  fair  day-spring  of  Light  and  of  Truth, 
Than  the  old  brutem  fulmen  of  Tyranny — Force. 

From  the  holes  where  Fraud,   Falsehood  and  Hate  slink 
away: 

From  the  crypt  in  which  Error  lies  buried  in  chains — 
This  foul  apparition  stalks  forth  to  the  day, 

And  would  ravage  the  land  which  his  presence  profanes. 

Could  you  conquer  us,  Men  of  the  North,  could  you  bring 
Desolation  and  death  on  our  homes  as  a  flood — 

Can  you  hope  the  pure  lily,  Affection,  will  spring 
From  ashes  all  reeking  and  sodden  with  blood? 

Could  you  brand  us  as  villains,  and  serfs,  know  ye  not 
What  fierce,  sullen  hatred  lurks  under  the  scar? 

How  loyal  to  Hapsburg  is  Venice,  I  wot, 

How  dearly  the  Pole  loves  his  Father,  the  Czar ! 
36 


COERCION  37 

But  'turn-  \\ell  to  remember  this  land  of  the  sun 

Is  a  nutrLr  Iconum  and  suckles  a  race 
Strong-armed,  lion-hearted  and  handed  as  one 

Who  brook  not  oppression  and  know  not  disgrace. 

And  well  may  the  schemers  in  office  beware 
The  swift  retribution  that   waits  upon  crime, 

When  the  lion.  Resistance,  shall  leap  from  his  lair 
With  a  fury  that  renders  his  vengeance  sublime. 

Once,  Men  of  the  North,  \\e  were  brothers,  and  still, 
Though  brothers  no  more,  we  would  gladly  be  friends; 

Nor  join  in  a  conflict  accurst  that  must  fill 
With  ruin  the  country  on  which  it  descends. 

But  if  Smitten  with  blindness  and  mad  with  the  rage 
The  gods  gave  to  all  whom  they  wished  to  destroy, 

You  would  not  act  a  new  Iliad  to  darken  the  age 
With  horrors  beyond  what  is  told  us  of  Troy— 

If,  deaf  as  the  adder  itself  to  the  cries, 

When  Wisdom.  Humanity,  Justice  implore, 

You  would  have  our  proud  eagle  to  feed  on  the  eyes 
Of  those  who  have  taught  him  so  grandly  to  soar— 

If  there  be  to  your  malice  no  limit  imposed, 
And  you  purpose  hereafter  to  rule  with  the  rod 

The  men  upon  whom  you  have  already  closed 
Our  goodly  domain  and  the  temples  of  God — 

To  the  breeze  then  your  banner  dishonoured  unfold, 
And  at  once  let  the  tocsin  be  sounded  afar; 

We  greet  you,  as  greeted  the  Swiss  Charles  the  Bold, 
With  a  farewell  to  peace  and  a  welcome  to  war! 


38  COERCION 

For  the  courage  that  clings  to  our  soil,  ever  bright, 
Shall  catch  inspirations  from  turf  and  from  tide; 

Our  sons  unappalled  shall  go  forth  to  the  fight 

With  the  smile  of  the  fan-,  the  pure  kiss  of  the  bride; 

And  the  bugles  its  echoes  shall  send  through  the  past, 
In  the  trenches  of  Yorktown  to  waken  the  slain; 

While  the  sods  of  King's  Mountain  shall  heave  at  the  blast, 
And  give  up  its  heroes  to  glory  again. 


UNITED  STATES  DISTRICT  COURT,  DISTRICT 
NO.  1,  UNDERWOOD,  J.4 

VIRGINIA  !   how  sad  is  thy  case, 

How  degraded  thy  judgments  impartial, 
When  Underwood  sits  in  the  place 

That  once  was  adorned  by  a  MARSHALL, 
We  say  it  with  reason  that  Fate 

Was  cruel,  if  not  undiscerning, 
To  give  Knavery,  Pedantry,  Hate, 

For  Goodness  and  Wisdom  and  Learning. 

They  tell  us  that  Justice  is  blind, 

And  thus  we  may  safely  determine 
How  Underwood  e'er  was  assigned 

To  wear  her  immaculate  ermine; 
His  peer  you'll  not  find  in  your  track 

Though  you  travel  from  Maine  to  Missouri 
Whose  villainous  heart  is  as  black 

As  the  faces  of  five  of  his  jury. 

Foul  spectre  of  Jeffreys,  avaunt! 

Apparition  of  Impey,  be  quiet ! 
When  Underwood  comes  with  his  cant 

To  investigate  murder  and  riot; 
Yet  if  you  will  not  be  denied, 

But  insist  you  are  birds  of  a  feather, 
Take  your  places  at  once  by  his  side 

And  all  three  sit  in  banco  together. 
89 


WILLIAM  H.  SEWARD 

[ON   HIS   RETURN   FROM    EUROPE,    JANUARY,    I860] 

Sic  te  diva  potens  Cypri, 
Sic  fratres  Helenae,  lucida  sidera, 

Ventorumque  regat  pater, 
Obstrictis  aliis  praeter  lapyga, 

Navis  quae  tibi  creditum 
Debes  Virgilium,  finibus  Atticis 

Reddas  incolumen,  precor, 
Et  serves  animae  dimidium  meae. 

— HORATIUS,  Liber  1,  carmen 

BLEST  be  the  ship  that  brought  you  safe  to  shore, 
Long  fated  with  the  winds  and  waves  to  wrestle, 

As  that  of  old  which  Virgil  proudly  bore; 

(My  motto's  not,  you  must  yourself  confess,  ill), 

You  never  have  been  so  much  missed  before, 
They  want  you  now  upon  another  vessel — 

The  ship  of  state  is  drifting  fast  to  leeward, 

And  needs  your  master  hand,  O  matchless  Seward ! 

I  cannot  tell,  indeed,  but  we  shall  go 
To  Davy  Jones  with  such  a  Palinurus, 

There's  been  of  late  a  "dreffle"  heavy  blow 
From  bustling  Auster  and  destructive  Eurus; 

And  able  seamanship  alone,  I  know 

'Gainst  ever-threatening  peril  can  secure  us — 

And  sure  am  I  we  should  have  soon  been  undone 

Had  you  not  happily  come  back  from  London. 

But  I  forget — you  came  direct  from  France, 

You've  been  a  guest  at  Compiegne  of  the  Emperor 

Methinks  I  see  you  lightest  in  the  dance, 
Like  youthful  innocence  (0  si  sic  semper!)  or 
40 


WILLIAM   H.  SEWARD  41 

Ogling  with  the  looks  of  tenderness  askance 

The  fair  Eugenie  in  the  sweetest  temper,  or 
Apart  with  Louis,  with  a  cool  effront'ry 
Plotting  the  speedy  downfall  of  the  country. 

You've  made  a  pilgrimage,  another  "Childe," 
To  Greece  where  stood  the  ancient  Athenaeum 

And  roamed  through  "antres  vast  and  desarts"  wild 
And  heard  in  minsters  dim  the  loved  Te  Deum; 

In  galleries  strolled  where  Raphael's  Mary  smiled, 
And  seen  the  ruins  of  the  Coliseum; — 

And  now  return  to  an  admiring  nation 

To  see  the  ruins  of  your  reputation. 

Enough — you're  wanted  in  this  country  now, 
For  since  you  lingered  by  the  fane  of  Isis, 

They've  gone  and  made  Oh,  such  a  precious  row 
In  Congress  over  the  "Impending  Crisis": 

By  Hinton  Helper,  not  by  Dr.  Howe, 

Of  which  but  fifty  cents  the  present  price  is — 

They  print  it  cheap  to  make  it  more  accessible, 

The  text-book  of  your  "Conflict  Irrepressible." 

They've  hung  John  Brown,  the  martyr  and  the  saint, 
To  whom  New  England  sings  extravaganzas — 

The  Devil  himself  would  Wendell  Phillips  paint 
Sky-blue,  and  Lowell  write  him  tuneful  stanzas; 

But,  spite  of  Blaek  Republican  complaint, 

You'll  hear  no  more,  I  think,  of  "bleeding  Kans.i- 

Virginia  stopped  that  terrible  phlebotomy 

Last  month,  you  know,  in  hanging  Ossawattomie. 

"O  bloodiest  picture  in  the  Book  of  Time!" 

Perhaps  you'll  say.     'Twos  a  stern  sentence,  very; 


42  WILLIAM  H.  SEWARD 

But  old  Brown's  rifle  slew  (confound  the  rhyme !) 
Some  worthy  citizens  at  Harper's  Ferry; 

Think  of  the  tool  and  victim  of  your  crime, 

And  o'er  his  righteous  fate  at  home  make  merry, 

Or  quickly  seek  North  Elba  where  they've  laid  him 

And  there  confess  how  vilely  you've  betrayed  him. 

We've  heard  about  your  knowledge  of  his  scheme, 
And  how  you  said  they  never  should  have  told  you 

But  kept  the  guilty  secret;  did  you  deem 

The  Black  Republicans  had  only  "sold"  you? 

Oh,  no;  you  know  'twas  not  a  hideous  dream, 

No  doubts,  no  conscience  twinges  e'er  controlled  you; 

For  this,  and  other  pleasing  stories, 

Vide  the  brilliant  speech  of  Mr.  Voorhees. 

"Sweet  Auburn!    Loveliest  village  of  the  plain," 
Well  may  thy  sons  in  happy  groups  assemble, 

To  welcome  to  his  long-lost  home  again 

The  man  whose  voice  makes  list'ning  senates  tremble, 

As  fashionable  people  thrill  with  pain 

At  Lady  Macbeth  read  by  Fanny  Kemble — 

And  who  atones  at  once  for  all  his  knavery 

By  eloquently  pitching  into  slavery. 

There  is  a  prison*  in  that  pleasant  town 
That  should  have  offered  you  its  hospitalities, 

On  landscapes  peaceful  its  grim  walls  look  down, 
Quite  near  the  Central  Railway  and  Canal  it  is — 

There  you  might  write  the  life  of  Captain  Brown, 
The  quietest  of  undisturbed  localities, 

And  there  I  trust  you  may  yet  be  resident 

Until  the  "colored  gem'men"  make  you  President. 

*  Western  Penitentiary  of  New  York. 


A  FAREWELL  TO  POPE 

"HATS  off"  in  the  crowd,  "Present  arms"  in  the  line! 
Let  the  standards  all  bow,  and  the  sabres  incline — 
Roll,  drums,  the  Rogue's  March,  while  the  conqueror  goes, 
Whose  eyes  have  seen  only  "the  backs  of  his  foes"- 
Through  a  thicket  of  laurel,  a  whirlwind  of  cheers, 
His  vanishing  form  from  our  gaze  disappears; 
Henceforth  with  the  savage  Dacotahs  to  cope, 
Abiti,  evasit,  erupit — John  Pope. 

He  came  out  of  the  West,  like  the  young  Lochinvar, 

Compeller  of  fate  and  controller  of  war, 

Videre  et  vincere,  simply  to  see, 

And  straightway  to  conquer  Hill,  Jackson  and  Lee; 

And  old  Abe  at  the  White  House,  like  Kilmansegg  pere, 

"Seemed  washing  his  hands  with  invisible  soap," 

As  with  eager  attention  he  listened  to  Pope. 

He  came — and  the  poultry  was  swept  by  his  sword, 
Spoons,  liquors,  and  furniture  went  by  the  board; 
And  "rode  to  the  front,"  which  was  strangely  the  rear; 
He  conquered — truth,  decency,  pretender,  poltroon; 
And  was  fain  from  the  scene  of  his  triumphs  to  slope, 
Sure  there  never  was  fortunate  hero  like  Pope. 

He  has  left  us  his  shining  example  to  note, 
And  Stuart  has  captured  his  uniform  coat; 
But  'tis  puzzling  enough,  as  his  deeds  we  recall, 
To  tell  on  whose  shoulders  his  mantle  should  fall; 

43 


44  A  FAREWELL  TO  POPE 

While  many  may  claim  to  deserve  it,  at  least, 
From  Hunter,  the  Hound,  down  to  Butler,  the  Beast, 
None  else,  we  can  say,  without  risking  the  trope, 
But  himself  can  be  parallel  ever  to  Pope. 

Like  his  namesake  the  poet  of  genius  and  fire, 
He  gives  new  expression  and  force  to  the  lyre; 
But  in  one  little  matter  they  differ,  the  two, 
And  differ,  indeed,  very  widely,  'tis  true — 
While  his  verses  gave  great  Alexander  his  fame, 
'Tis  our  hero's  reverses  accomplish  the  same, 
And  fate  may  decree  that  the  end  of  a  rope 
Shall  award  yet  his  highest  position  to  Pope. 


RICHMOND'S  A  HARD  ROAD  TO  TRAVEL; 

OK  THE  NEW  JORDAN,  AS  SUNC;  WITH  ENTHUSIASTIC 
APPLAUSE  IN  ALL  THE  NORTHERN  THEATRES 

[RESPECTFULLY  DEDICATED  TO  (; I:\KH\L  AMBROSE  E. 
BURNSIDE] 

WOULD  you  like  to  hear  the  song,  I'm  afraid  it's  ratlu-r  long, 

Of  the  famous  "On  to  Richmond"  dmiMc  trouble — 
Of  the  half  a  dozen  slips  on  a  half  a  dozen  trips 

And  the  very  latest  bursting  of  the  bubble? 
Then  list  while  I  relate  this  most  unhappy  fate; 

Tis  a  dreadful  knotty  puzzle  to  unravel, 
Though  all  the  papers  swore,  when  we  touched  Virginia's 

shore, 
That  Richmond  was  an  easy  road  to  travel. 

Then  pull  off  your  coat  and  roll  up  your  sleeve, 

For  Richmond's  a  hard  road  to  travel. 
Then  pull  off  your  coat  and  roll  up  your  sleeve, 
For  Richmond's  a  hard  road  to  travel,  I  believe. 

First  McDowell,  bold  and  gay,  set  forth  the  shortest  way, 

By  Manassas  in  the  pleasant  summer  weather, 
But  he  quickly  went  and  ran  on  a  Stonewall,  foolish  man, 

And  had  a  "rocky"  journey  altogether; 
For  he  found  it  rather  hard  to  ride  over  Beauregard, 

And  Johnston  proved  a  deuce  of  a  bother, 
And  'twas  clear  beyond  a  doubt  that  he  didn't  like  the  rout, 
And  a  second  time  would  have  to  try  another. 
Then  pull  off  your  coat  and  roll  up  your  sleeve, 

For  Richmond's  a  hard  road  to  travel; 
Manassas  gave  us  fits,  and  Bull  Run  it  made  us  grieve — 
Oh!    Richmond's  a  hard  road  to  travel,  I  believe. 
45 


46         RICHMOND'S  A  HARD  ROAD  TO  TRAVEL 

Next  came  the  Woolly  Horse,  with  an  overwhelming  force, 

To  march  down  to  Richmond  by  the  Valley, 
But  he  couldn't  find  the  road,  and  his  "onward  movement" 

showed 

His  campaigning  was  a  mere  shilly-shally. 
And  Commissary  Banks,  with  his  motley  foreign  ranks, 

The  Dutchman  and  the  Celt,  not  the  Saxon, 
Lost  the  whole  of  his  supplies,  and,  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
Ran  away  from  that  dunder-headed  Jackson. 
Then  pull  off  your  coat  and  roll  up  your  sleeve, 

For  Richmond's  a  hard  road  to  travel; 
The  Valley  wouldn't  do,  as  everybody  knows, 
And  Richmond's  a  hard  road  to  travel,  I  suppose. 

Then  the  great  Galena  came,  with  her  port-holes  all  aflame, 

And  the  Monitor,  that  famous  naval  wonder, 
But  the  guns  at  Drewry's  bluff  gave  them  speedily  enough 

Of  the  loudest  sort  of  real  Rebel  thunder: 
The  Galena  was  astonished,  and  the  Monitor  admonished, 
And  their  efforts  to  ascend  the  stream  were  mocked  at, 
While  the  dreadful  Naugatuck,  by  the  hardest  kind  of  luck, 
Was  very  nearly  knocked  into  a  cocked  hat. 
Then  pull  off  your  coat  and  roll  up  your  sleeve, 

For  Richmond's  a  hard  road  to  travel; 
The  gunboats  gave  it  up  in  a  stupefied  despair, 
And  Richmond  is  a  hard  road  to  travel,  I  declare. 

Then  McClellan  followed  soon,  with  spade  and  with  bal 
loon, 

To  try  the  Peninsula  approaches, 
But  one  and  all  agreed  that  his  best  rate  of  speed 

Wasn't  faster  than  the  slowest  of  "slow  coaches;" 
Instead  of  easy  ground,  at  Williamsburg  he  found 

A  Longstreet,  indeed,  and  nothing  shorter, 


RICHMOND'S  A  HARD   ROAD  TO  TRAVEL          47 

And  it  put  him  in  the  (lumps  that  spades  wasn't  trumps 
And  the  Hills  he  couldn't  level  as  he  "ortrr." 
Then  pull  off  your  coat  and  roll  up  your  sleeve, 

For  Richmond's  a  hard  road  to  travel; 
Lay  down  the  shovel  and  fling  away  the  spade, 
For  Richmond's  a  hard  road  to  travel,  I'm  afraid. 

He  tried  the  Rebel  lines,  on  the  field  of  Seven  Pines, 

Where  his  troops  did  such  awful  heavy  chargin'— 
But  he  floundered  in  the  mud,  and  he  saw  a  stream  of  blood 

Overflow  the  Chickahominy's  sweet  margin; 
Though   the  fact  seems  rather  strange,   when   he   left   his 

gunboats'  range, 

On  land  he  drifted  overmuch  to  Lee-ward, 
So  he  quickly  "changed  his  base,"  in  a  sort  of  steeplech:ts<». 
And  hurried  back  to  Stanton,  Abe  and  Seward. 
Then  pull  off  your  coat  and  roll  up  your  sleeve, 

For  Richmond's  a  hard  road  to  travel; 
Wr  shouldn't  be  surprised  that  McClellan  took  to  drink 
ing, 
For  Richmond's  a  hard  road  to  travel,  I'm  a-thinking. 

Then  said  Lincoln  unto  Pope,  "You  can  make  the  trip,  I 

hope." 

Quoth  the  bragging  Major-general,  "Yes,  that  I  can," 
And  began  to  issue  orders  to  his  terrible  marauders, 

Just  like  another  Leo  of  the  Vatican; 
But  that  same  demented  Jackson  this  fellow  laid  his  whurks 

on, 

And  made  him  by  compulsion  a  Seceder, 
And  Pope  took  a  rapid  flight  from  Manassas'  second  fight — 
'Twas  his  very  last  appearance  as  a  leader. 

Then  pull  off  your  coat  and  roll  up  your  sleeve. 
For  Richmond's  a  hard  road  to  travel; 


48         RICHMOND'S  A  HARD  ROAD  TO  TRAVEL 

Pope  tried  his  very  best,  and  was  evidently  sold, 
And  Richmond's  a  hard  road  to  travel,  I  am  told. 

Last  of  all  the  brave  Burnside,  with  his  pontoon  bridges, 

tried 

A  road  no  one  had  thought  of  before  him, 
With  two  hundred  thousand  men  for  the  Rebel  "slaughter 

pen," 

And  the  blessed  Union  flag  a-flying  o'er  him; 
But  he  met  "a  fire  of  hell,"  of  canister  and  shell, 
Enough  to  make  the  knees  of  any  man  knock; 
'Twas  a  shocking  sight  to  view,  that  second  Waterloo, 
On  the  banks  of  the  pleasant  Rappahannock. 
Then  pull  off  your  coat  and  roll  up  your  sleeve, 

For  Richmond's  a  hard  road  to  travel; 
'Twas  a  shocking  sight  to  view,  that  second  Waterloo, 
And  Richmond's  a  bloody  road  to  travel,  it  is  true. 

We  are  very  much  perplexed  to  know  who'll  try  it  next, 

And  to  guess  by  what  new  highroad  he  may  go, 
But  the  capital  must  blaze,  and  that  in  ninety  days, 

For  'tis  written,  Delenda  est  Carthago — 
We'll  take  the  cursed  town,  and  then  we'll  burn  it  down, 

And  plunder  and  hang  up  every  rebel — 
Yet  the  contraband  was  right  when  he  told  us  they  would 

fight— 
"Oh,  yis,  marsa,  they'll  fight  like  the  debble." 

Then  pull  off  your  coat  and  roll  up  your  sleeve, 

For  Richmond's  a  hard  road  to  travel; 
We've  played  our  strongest  card,  and  'tis  plain  that  we 

are  slammed, 

And  if  Richmond  ain't  a  hard  road  to  travel,  I'll  be — 
blamed ! 


VIRGINIA  FUIT6 

"  The  name  of  the  commonwealth  is  past  and  gone." 

— BYRON,  Ode  to  Venice. 

Consummation — the  work  of  destruction  is  done, 
The  race  of  the  first  of  the  States  has  been  run, 
The  guile  of  her  foes  finds  her  triumph  at  last, 
And  VIRGINIA,  like  Poland,  belongs  to  the  past. 

How  her  story  the  heart's  deepest  reverence  stirs, 
What  a  stature,  antique  and  heroic,  was  hers, 
What  a  grace,  what  a  glory,  her  presence  adorning, 
In  the  fresh,  dewy  light  of  Liberty's  morning. 

In  that  day  of  her  early  espousals  she  came 
With  her  dowry  of  empire,  her  birthright  of  fame, 
To  enrich  and  ennoble  on  land  and  on  sea 
The  Republic  her  Washington's  valor  made  free. 

And  what  greatness  resplendent  it  won,  through  her  love, 
Let  the  eloquent  page  of  the  annalist  prove, 
Wherein,  though  the  page  is  now  blotted  with  tears, 
Virginia  but  ever  as  Empress  appears. 

The  nation's  decrees  did  her  counsellors  mould,6 
And  her  orators'  words  were  as  apples  of  gold; 
Her  captains  triumphant,  afloat  and  ashore, 
Gave  the  banner  of  Union  the  brightness  it  bore. 

And  for  this,  that  her  children  disgraced  not  their  sires. 
That  they  strove  to  keep  lighted  their  liberty  fires, 
That  they  hailed  her  as  rightfully  wearing  the  crown, 
For  this  have  her  enemies  trampled  her  down. 
49 


50  VIRGINIA  FUIT 

How  low  she  lies  now,  stript  of  half  her  domain, 
Bewailing  her  sons  who  in  battle  were  slain, 
With  the  shade  of  an  infinite  sadness  upon  her, 
And  all  she  loved  dearest,  all  lost  but  her  honor ! 

Thank  heaven !   that  is  safe :  with  a  madness  accurst, 
Let  the  tyrants  that  rule  for  the  hour  do  their  worst; 
She  may  bleed  'neath  the  heel  of  the  hireling  invader, 
They  may  spoil,  they  may  rend,  but  they  cannot  de 
grade  her. 

Let  them  subjugate  nature — enraged,  let  them  seek 
To  drain  the  broad  waste  of  the  blue  Chesapeake, 
Let  them  seal  up  the  sources  whence  rushes  Bull  Run, 
And  shut  out  from  the  Valley  the  face  of  the  sun: 

Let  them  falsify  fact,  without  conscience  or  ruth, 
Let  them  paralyze  justice  and  manacle  Truth; 
(Fair  Truth,  we  accept  of  their  poet  the  line, 
That  the  years  of  the  Godhead  eternal  are  thine). 

Yet  the  record  remains:  in  the  garment  of  song 
The  legend  of  Jackson  her  praise  shall  prolong, 
And  Veritas  Virens,  crushed  down  though  it  be, 
Shall  spring  to  the  light  in  the  story  of  LEE! 

From  the  anguish  abysmal  where  prostrate  she  lies 

VIRGINIA  the  Desolate  never  may  rise; 

For  already  the  iron  has  entered  her  soul, 

And  behold,  at  the  fountain,  all  broken  the  bowl. 

But  of  just  retribution  there  cometh  the  day; 
The  Master  has  promised  it — I  WILL  REPAY— 
And  wo  to  the  people  he  smites  with  His  rod 
In  that  terrible  day  of  the  vengeance  of  God ! 


THE  GREEK  SLAVE,  OF  POWERS 

IT  is  not  that  the  sculptor's  patient  toil 
Gives  sweet  expression  to  the  poet's  dream — 
It  is  not  that  the  cold  and  rigid  stone 
Is  taught  to  mock  the  human  fare  divine, 
That  silently  we  stand  before  her  form 
And  feel  in  a  holy  presence  there. 
But  in  those  fair,  calm  lineaments  of  hers, 
All  pure  and  passionless,  we  catch  the  glow, 
The  bright  intelligence  of  soul  infused, 
And  tender  memories  of  gentle  things 
And  sorrowing  innocence  and  hopeful  trust, 
The  perfect  utt'rance  of  ideal  grace, 
Life-like  as  Hermione,  there  she  stands 
As  if  her  bosom  throbbed  with  high  designs 
And  those  celestial  lips  would  part  in  speech 
To  tell  the  brief  sad  story  of  her  wrongs ! 

In  some  secluded  vale  of  A  ready. 
In  playful  gambols  o'er  its  sunny  slopes. 
Had  nature  led  her  childish  feet  to  stray. 
Or  she  had  watched  the  blue  Egean  wave 
Dash  on  the  sands  of  "sea-born  Salamis." 
Or,  in  her  infant  sports,  had  sunk  to  sleep, 
Beneath  the  wasting  shadow  of  that  porch 
Whose  sculptured  gods,  upon  its  crumbling  front. 
Reveal  the  glories  of  a  by-gone  age. 
There,  watered  by  affection's  richest  dews 
And  the  warm  teardrops  of  maternal  love, 
This  lovely  flow'ret,  day  by  day,  grew  up 
In  beauty  and  in  fragrance.     Such  the  line, 
51 


52  THE  GREEK  SLAVE,  OF  POWERS 

That  marked  the  short  and  simple  chronicle, 

Of  life's  clear  morning.     Soon  the  spoiler  came, 

The  mercenary  Turk  with  horse  and  spear, 

And  this  meek  blossom  rudely  tore  away 

To  deck  the  harem  of  some  brutal  lord. 

A  long  and  toilsome  road  they  took,  and  oft 

In  the  warm  twilight  of  a  summer's  eve, 

This  lovely  girl  had  fallen  in  the  path, 

Weary  and  sick  at  heart.     And  then  a  tide 

Of  gushing  recollections  quickly  came 

From  the  feeling's  fount  "to  ope  the  source  of  tears," 

And  her  young  spirit  bowed  in  anguish  there; 

Like  Israel's  captives  when,  by  Babel's  stream, 

Remembering  Sion,  they  sat  down  and  wept! 

Her  ear  perchance  had  caught  a  passing  strain, 

Some  well-known  melody  of  youthful  days, 

And  she  had  feebly  lisped  a  prayer  to  God 

That  she  might  live  to  see  her  childhood's  hills 

And  look  again  into  her  mother's  face. 

As  when  in  foreign  climes  the  Switzer  hears 

That  wild  effusion  of  his  native  Alps, 

The  thrilling  Ranz  des  Vaches,  he  longs  to  climb 

In  freedom  once  again  the  chamois  track 

Of  his  remembered  home. 

And  now  a  slave, 

Fettered  and  friendless  in  the  market-place 
Of  that  imperial  city  of  the  East, 
Whose  thousand  minarets  at  eve  resound 
With  the  muezzin's  sunset  call  to  prayer, 
She  stands  exposed  to  the  unhallowed  gaze 
And  the  rude  jests  of  ev'ry  passer  by. 
There  in  her  loveliness,  disrobed  for  sale, 
Girt  with  no  vesture  save  her  purity, 


THE  GREEK  SLAVE,  OF  POWERS  53 

A  ray  of  placid  resignation  beams 

In  ev'ry  line  of  her  sweet  countenance, 

And  on  the  lip  a  half  disdainful  curl 

Proclaims  the  helpless  victim  in  her  chains 

Victorious  in  a  woman's  modesty! 

There  does  the  poor  dejected  slave  display 

A  mien  the  fabled  goddess  could  not  wear, 

A  look  and  gesture  that  might  well  beseem 

Some  seraph  from  that  bright  meridian  shore 

Where  walk  the  angels  of  the  Christian  creed ! 

Sweet  visions  cheered  the  sculptor's  lonely  hours, 

And  glorious  images  of  heavenly  mould 

Came  trooping  at  his  call,  as  blow  by  blow, 

The  marble  yielded  to  his  constant  toil, 

And  when  he  gave  his  last  informing  touch 

And  raised  the  chisel  from  that  radiant  brow, 

And  gazed  upon  the  work  of  his  own  hands 

So  cunningly  struck  out  from  shapeless  stone, 

His  eyes  dilated  with  a  conscious  joy 

That  patient  effort  with  enduring  life 

Had  clothed  his  beauteous  and  majestic  child ! 

Such  are  thy  triumphs,  genius,  such  rewards 
As  far  outweigh  all  perishable  gifts, 
Ingots  of  silver  and  barbaric  gold 
And  all  tin-  trophies  of  tiaraed  - 

Ntw  York  City,  September.  1847. 


DEDICATION  HYMN7 

LORD  !   Thou  hast  said  when  two  or  three 
Together  come  to  worship  Thee, 
Thy  presence,  fraught  with  richest  grace, 
Shall  ever  fill  and  bless  the  place. 

Then  let  us  feel,  as  here  we  raise 
A  temple  to  Thy  matchless  praise, 
The  blest  assurance  of  Thy  love 
As  it  is  felt  in  realms  above. 

Lord !   here  upon  Thy  sacred  day 
Teach  us  devoutly  how  to  pray, 
Our  weakness  let  Thy  strength  supply, 
Nor  to  our  darkness  light  deny. 

Here  teach  our  flattering  tongues  to  sing 
The  glories  of  the  Heavenly  King, 
And  let  our  aspirations  rise 
To  seek  the  Saviour  in  the  skies. 

And  when  at  last  in  life's  decline 
This  earthly  temple  we  resign, 
May  we,  O  Lord !   enjoy  with  Thee 
The  Sabbaths  of  eternity. 


54 


LA   MORGUE8 

IN  the  great  and  noisy  city, 

By  the  waters  of  the  Seine, 
NY  We  across  her  hundred  bridges 

Paris  pours  a  living  train; 
Far  beneath  the  gloomy  shadow 

Of  high  arches  overhead, 
Humid,  dark,  repulsive,  sombre, 

Stands  the  mansion  of  the  dead ! 

Onward  rolls  the  sparkling  water 

Gaily  as  if  Father  Time 
Ne'er  had  seen  it  red  with  slaughter 

In  the  carnival  of  crime; 
Onward  by  a  stately  palace 

And  by  gardens  fair  and  green 
Where  of  old  the  jewelled  chalice 

Met  the  kisses  of  a  queen; 

When  the  bright  though  transient  moments. 

Bubbles  bursting  as  they  rise, 
Still  went  by,  a  magic  circle 

Of  recurring  fantasies: 
And  o'er  all  there  sat  in  splendor 

She  whose  beauty  from  afar 
Flashed  above  the  faint  horizon 

Like  the  joyous  morning  star ! 

But  there  is  a  massive  prison, 

Built  upon  the  river-side, 
From  whose  vaults  have  vainly  risen 

Lamentations  to  the  tide: 
55 


56  LA  MORGUE 

And  within  its  dusky  portals 
Passed  this  yet  heroic  queen 

To  retrace  her  footsteps  never 
Till  she  seeks  the  guillotine! 

Seine!    in  all  thy  tortuous  courses, 

From  the  purple  vine-clad  steep, 
Down  by  Rouen's  grim  cathedral 

To  the  billows  of  the  deep, 
Never  has  thy  face  reflected 

Aught  so  terrible  to  see 
As  the  sullen  architecture 

Of  the  Conciergerie ! 

Dark  La  Morgue  hath  had  its  tenants, 

When  in  panoply  arrayed, 
Death  unfurled  his  horrid  pennants 

O'er  each  bloody  barricade: 
There  today  a  corse  is  carried 

Slowly  through  the  moving  crowd, 
By  the  world  all  unregarded, 

Wrapped  in  neither  sheet  nor  shroud ! 

As  the  light  reveals  the  features 

To  some  idler  of  the  throng, 
Soft  he  says  a  pater  noster, 

Moves  with  rapid  step  along 
While  above  the  wasted  body 

Bends  a  weeping  child  to  trace 
But  the  perishing  resemblance 

To  an  aged  father's  face. 

When  Apollo's  steeds  are  driven 
Frantic  through  the  eastern  sky 


LA  MORGUE  57 

Her  affection's  tears  arc  given 

O'er  a  form  too  fair  to  die, 
Fondly  still  the  mourner  lingers 

When  the  sun  at  even  calm 
Falls  aslant  upon  the  turrets 

Of  majestic  Notre  Dame! 

'Tis  perhaps  some  youthful  maiden 

From  thy  sunny  banks,  Garonne, 
With  a  thousand  graces  laden 

Who  no  thought  of  care  has  known, 
And  her  life's  brief,  gentle  morning — 

Ever  from  its  earliest  ray 
Home's  sequestered  paths  adorning — 

Kindled  into  perfect  day. 

Oft  when  rung  the  solemn  vesper 

Out  upon  the  drowsy  air 
She  had  walked  in  meek  devotion 

To  repeat  her  simple  prayer; 
And  with  tearful  sadness  kneeling 

In  the  chapel  hushed  and  dim 
Upward  had  her  glance  ascended 

To  the  radiant  seraphim ! 

Now  she  lies  in  stony  silence, 

Stretched  upon  the  brazen  bier; 
Of  her  kindred,  none  to  offer 

E'en  the  tribute  of  a  tear, 
With  no  semblance  of  expression 

On  the  cold  and  pallid  lips, 
And  those  eyes  that  beamed  so  brightly 

Quenched  in  lustreless  eclipse. 


58  LA  MORGUE 


Such  as  this  the  daily  lessons 

That  to  man  La  Morgue  would  teach, 
Yet  they  pass  as  little  pondered 

As  the  eloquence  of  speech: 
Loud  the  din  of  worldly  pleasure 

While  around  us  flashing  flies 
Life,  with  its  delusive  phantoms 

And  its  empty  pageantries ! 


TO  MISS  AMELIE  LOUISE  RIVES 

[ON    HER    DEPARTURE    FOR    FRANCE] 

LADY  !   that  bark  will  be  more  richly  freighted 

That  bears  thee  proudly  on  to  foreign  shores 
Than  argosies  of  which  old  poets  prated, 

With  Colchian  fleece  or  with  Peruvian  ores; 
And  should  the  prayers  of  friendship  prove  availing 

That  trusting  hearts  now  offer  up  for  thee 
'Twill  ride  the  crested  wave  with  braver  sailing 

Than  ever  pinnace  on  the  Pontic  sea. 

The  sunny  land  thou  seekest  o'er  the  billow 

May  boast  indeed  the  honors  of  thy  birth, 
And  they  may  keep  a  vigil  round  thy  pillow 

Whom  thou  dost  love  most  dearly  upon  earth, 
Yet  shall  there  not  remain  with  thee  a  vision, 

Some  lingering  thought  of  happy  faces  here, 
Fonder  and  fairer  than  the  dreams  elysian 

Wherein  thy  future's  radiant  hues  appear? 

The  high  and  great  shall  render  thee  obeisance 

In  halls  bedecked  with  tapestries  of  gold, 
And  mansions  shall  be  brighter  for  thy  presence 

Where  swept  the  stately  Medicis  of  old — 
Still  'mid  the  pomp  of  all  this  courtly  lustre 

I  cannot  think  that  thou  wilt  all  forget 
The  pleasing  fantasies  that  thickly  cluster 

Around  the  walls  of  the  old  homestead  yet! 


59 


PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE9 

ONE  gifted  child  thou  hadst  who  reached  in  vain 

The  vast  propylon  of  the  gleaming  fane. 

'Twas  his  to  see  the  columns  pure  and  white 

Of  marble  and  of  ranged  chrysolite — 

The  lines  of  jasper  through  the  golden  gates — 

Alas !   no  more  was  suffered  by  the  Fates — 

Like  Baldur,  fairest  of  the  sons  of  morning, 

The  halls  of  Odin  lustrously  adorning, 

He  early  caught  the  pale,  blue,  fearful  glance 

Of  shadowy  Hela's  awful  countenance. 

Lamented  Cooke!    if  all  that  love  could  lend 

To  the  chaste  scholar  and  the  faithful  friend, 

If  all  the  spoiler  forced  us  to  resign 

In  the  calm  virtues  of  a  life  like  thine 

Could  bid  him  turn  his  fatal  dart  aside 

From  our  young  Lycidas,  thou  hadst  not  died. 

Peace  to  the  Poet's  shade !    His  ashes  rest 

Near  the  sweet  spot  he  loved  on  earth  the  best — 

The  modest  daisies  from  the  surface  peeping 

As  from  the  sod  where  Florence  Vane  lies  sleeping, 

While  his  own  river  murmurs  as  it  flows 

Perpetual  requiem  o'er  his  soft  repose. 


60 


PROPOSED  SALE  OF  THE  NATURAL  BRIDGE" 

A  SALE!  A  sale!  Earth's  proudest  things  are  daily  bought 

and  sold, 

And  art  and  nature  coincide  in  bowing  down  to  gold. 
Alas !  at  such  a  sale  as  this  sad  thoughts  within  us  rise 
Until  the  Bridge  becomes  to  us  a  very  Bridge  of  Sighs. 

Ho !  citizens  of  Lexington,  ho !  keepers  of  the  springs, 
To  whom  the  Bridge  a  revenue  in  transient  travel  brings, 
Rebuke  the  cruel  auctioneer  with  your  severest  frown 
Before  in  his  destructiveness  he  seeks  to  knock  it  down ! 

At  least,  ere  he  proceeds  to  such  extremity  as  that, 

Be  good  enough  to  bid  him  first  remember  what  he's  at. 

Let  even-handed  justice,  too,  cry  loudly  in  his  ears 

That  he  should  give  this  ancient  Bridge  a  trial  by  its  piers. 

Now,  by  the  bones  of  Captain  Smith,  how  shall  he  dare  to 
cry 

(For  crying's  his  "vocation,  Hal,"  though  with  unmois- 
tened  eye)? 

That  this  great  span  which  hath  endured  for  centuries  un 
known, 

At  bidding  of  a  purchaser  is  going,  going,  gone! 

Oh,  for  a  Wordsworth's  flowing  lines  to  sonnetize  the  Bridge 
And  paint  in  Tintern  Abbey  tints  the  Valley  and  the  Ridge, 
But  what's  words  worth  in  such  a  task  as  lies  before  us  here, 
As  little  as  to  give  the  face  of  placid  Windermere. 

61 


62          PROPOSED  SALE  OF  THE  NATURAL  BRIDGE 

The  only  ode,  O  noble  Bridge,  that  should  be  sung  to  thee 
Is  heard  among  the  mountain  pines  and  heard  upon  the  lea, 
A  Miserere  lofty  as  that  anthem  of  the  surge 
When  on  the  sunset  strand  it  chants  the  day's  departing 
dirge. 

The  earth  is  full  of  stately  works  of  monumental  pride — 
The  famed  Rialto  thrown  above  the  dark  Venetian  tide — 
And  pyramids  and  obelisks  of  ages  passed  away — 
And  friezes  of  Pentelicus  majestic  in  decay: — 

But    arches,    domes,  colossal   piles    that    human    skill    has 

wrought, 

All,  all,  when  in  comparison  with  thy  proportions  brought, 
Are  fleeting  as  the  palaces  fantastically  vain 
That  Russian  monarchs  rear  in  ice  on  Neva's  frozen  plain ! 

A  Saxon  priest  once  stood  beneath  the  Coliseum's  wall 
And  augured  that  the  globe  itself  should  topple  with  its 

fall! 
Oh,  when  this  mighty  arch  of  stone  shall  from  its  base  be 

hurled 
An  elemental  war  shall  work  the  ruin  of  the  world ! 


TO  INTEMPERANCE 

DISASTROUS  Power,  that  with  gigantic  stride 

Hast  stalked  so  long  in  triumph  through  the  land, 
Crushing  to  earth  alike  her  strength  and  pride 

And  reckoning  victims  by  the  grains  of  sand 

That  whiten  on  Sahara's  arid  strand, 
With  joy  I  see  thy  kingdom's  latter  days 

Writ  on  the  wall  by  more  than  earthly  hand, 
Such  joy  as  moved  the  shepherd  when  the  blaze 
Of  Bethlehem's  holy  star  first  burst  upon  his  gaze. 

Thou  "scourge  of  God"  more  dire  than  he  of  old,11 

Thou  "Mighty  Murderer!"  mightier  than  the  Greek12 
Were  the  dim  record  of  thy  reign  unrolled, 

That  simple  volume  would  a  language  speak 

Stern  as  the  thunder  upon  Sinai's  peak; 
For  stand  engraved  upon  its  bloody  page, 

'Mid  countless  millions  of  the  obscure  and  weak, 
Names  that  have  cast  a  lialo  round  the  age 
That  gave  them  birth;  the  bard,  the  hero,  and  the  sage. 

Even  as  the  worst  dark  tyrant 13  that  old  Rome 

Brought  forth,  to  curse  the  earth,  in  her  decay, 
When  tired  of  vulgar  murder,  from  its  home 

Dragged  unoffending  genius  into  day, 

Not  to  reward  its  owner,  but  to  slay, 
So  thy  undying  appetite  for  blood, 

Gorged  to  repletion  on  ignobler  prey, 
Seeks  a  fresh  stimulant  in  daintier  food 
And  feasts  upon  the  wise,  the  valiant,  and  the  good. 
63 


64  TO  INTEMPERANCE 

The  Juggernaut  of  India's  palmy  days, 

The  fiery  Moloch  of  the  olden  time 
Breathed,  'mid  their  brute  adorers'  stupid  gaze 

An  atmosphere  replete  with  blood  and  crime, 

Each  in  his  separate  sphere;  but  neither  clime 
Nor  era  limits  thy  immense  domain, 

O'er  the  wide  earth  thy  sceptre  waves  sublime, 
Its  countless  nations  wear  thy  clanking  chain — 
With  the  great  flood  itself  began  thy  deadly  reign.14 


TO  MRS.  S.  P.  Q. . .   ,  ON  HER  MARRIAGE 

DEAR  lady !   pardon  me  the  crime 
If  haply  my  too  careless  rh vine 
Disturb,  at  this  auspicious  time, 

A  mother's  soft  caressings; 
While  yet  thine  eyes  are  moist  and  dim 
With  recent  tears,  and  round  the  rim 
Of  Joy's  bright  cup,  now  filled  to  him, 

There  dance  a  thousand  blessings. 

I  have  not  known  thee  well,  nor  long; 
Our  meeting  was  amid  the  throng; 
The  cadence  of  the  passing  song 

Was  scarce  more  quickly  ended: 
But  with  thine  unobtrusive  grace, 
The  fond  remembrance  of  thy  face, 
Which  time  nor  change  may  e'er  erase, 

What  kindly  thoughts  are  blended. 

Henceforth  thy  childhood's  life  shall  be 
A  habitation  shut  to  thee, 
And  lost  for  aye  the  golden  key 

To  all  its  wayward  fancies: 
And  girlhood's  giddy  time  shall  seem 
The  sweet  illusion  of  a  dream 
Or  as  some  half  forgotten  theme 

From  out  the  old  romances. 

But  grieve  not,  lady!  on  the  past, 
'T  was  all  too  beautiful  to  last; 
Thy  future's  lines  may  yet  be  cast 
In  "places"  quite  as  "pleasant": 
65 


66          TO  MRS.  S.  P.  Q ON  HER  MARRIAGE 

And  others  seek  with  friendship's  wile, 
Thy  gentle  sorrows  to  beguile, 
As  tenderly  as  they  whose  smile 

Makes  glad  the  fleeting  present. 

'T  is  sad  to  leave  the  haunted  glade, 
The  homestead  where  thy  presence  made 
A  mellow  sunshine  in  the  shade, 

Like  Wordsworth's  highland  beauty; 
But  he  whose  arms  thy  footsteps  stays 
Shall  lead  thee  through  the  coming  days 
Along  the  green  and  quiet  ways 

Of  holy  faith  and  duty. 

And  thus  with  all  that  love  endears, 
With  him  to  share  thy  hopes  and  fears, 
May'st  thou  live  on,  till  added  years 

Of  age  give  timely  warning: 
Then  be  it  thine  on  joys  to  muse 
That  still  around  thy  path  diffuse 
A  radiance  softer  than  the  hues 

Of  life's  unclouded  morning. 


A    DIRGE 

[FOR   THE    FUNERAL   SOLEMNITIES   OF   ZACHARY    TAYLOR] 

AGAIN  the  cold,  insatiate  grave 
Has  newly  closed  above  the  brave; 
Again  in  solemn  form  we  meet 
A  chieftain's  virtue  to  repeat — 
Bedew  with  tears  the  laurel  leaf, 
And  sing  the  low,  sad  dirge  of  grief. 

The  cord  is  loosed,  but  lives  he  yet, 
His  star  in  glory's  azure  set, 
His  name  embalmed  in  freedom's  songs, 
His  fame  upon  ten  thousand  tongues, 
And  his  a  triumph  in  the  skies 
Beyond  all  earthly  victories! 

Lord !  give  us  strength,  as  he  was  strong, 
To  serve  our  country  well  and  long — 
And  when  the  summons  comes  to  go, 
May  we  the  blest  assurance  know 
That  lighted  up  his  glazing  eye, 
That  we  are  still  "prepared  to  die!" 


67 


INVOCATION 


THE   VOICE   OF   RICHMOND   TO   PHINEAS   T.    BARNUM 

Wer  liebt  nicht  Wein,  Weib  und  Gesang, 
Der  bleibt  ein  Narr  sein  Lebenlang. 

— LUTHER. 


The  poet  in- 
viteth  the 
Manager  to 
visit  Virginia 
with  Jenny 
Lind. 


The  poet  sug 
gests  that,  for 
want  of  a 
great  room,  the 
nightingale  shall 
sing  in  the  open 
sir. 


And  offers  to 
write  for  him 
a  prize  song 
at  half  price. 


BARNUM!  heed  the  fond  petitions 

We  would  whisper  in  your  ear, 
Bonaparte  of  exhibitions, 

Bring  the  Swedish  songstress  here, 
We  would  catch  the  strain  of  Circe, 

But  without  her  fatal  glance — 
Barnum !  for  the  love  of  mercy, 

Let  us  have  a  single  chance ! 

Do  not  yet  that  heart  so  harden 

That  within  your  waistcoat  beats, 
If  no  Spacious  Castle  Garden 

Offers  here  10,000  seats; 
For  much  greater  than  Tedesco, 

This  new  prodigy  of  yours 
Here  can  simply  sing  al  fresco, 

And  yet  fill  "all  out  of  doors." 

And  since  Bayard  Taylor's  verses 

Did  not  meet  with  much  success, 
But  provoked  the  heavy  curses 

Of  eight  hundred  bards,  or  less, 
I  will  write  some  vastly  better 

To  the  tune  of  "Dearest  Mae," 
And  you  shall  remain  my  debtor 

Only  for  one-half  his  pay.16 


INVOCATION 


The  hospitali 
ties  of  the 
town  are  freely 
tendered. 


The  Manager 
is  invoked  to 
consent  by  all 
the  memories 
of  his  past 
renown. 


Come  then,  noble  Corypheus 

Of  the  wonders  of  the  world, 
Bring  the  nightingale  to  see  us, 

Here  be  Sweden's  flag  unfurled. 
In  the  town  of  Richmond,  I  know, 

You  can  gather — for  a  song — 
Loud  applauses  and  the  rhino. 

"Say,  why  don't  you  come  along?" 

By  the  Fame  of  the  Museum, 

(Type  of  Yankee  enterprise, 
Let  it  be  your  mausoleum), 

By  the  light  of  Jenny's  eyes — 
By  the  wonders  of  the  former — 

By  the  shade  of  aged  Joyce, — 16 
By  the  pruning-hook  of  Norma, 

Let  us  hear  the  charmer's  voice ! 


TO  JENNY  HERSELF 

HAVING  pleaded  with  Barnum,  and  pleaded  in  vain, 

To  bring  you  among  us,  fair  Empress  of  Song, 
A  voice  more  persuasive  our  muse  would  attain 

The  gentle  petition  with  you  to  prolong: 
Then  whilst  the  town  wits  are  discussing  your  style 

And  the  papers  assail  you  with  censure  and  praise, 
Bid  Tribune  and  Tripler  adieu  for  awhile 

And  sing  for  us  some  of  your  exquisite  lays ! 

Our  critics  who've  heard  you  in  Gotham  declare 

That  frigid  and  feigned  your  soprano  appears, 
And,  while  it  ascends  to  the  uppermost  air, 

It  never  unseals  the  soft  fountain  of  tears — 
That,  like  some  huge  iceberg  in  boreal  seas, 

With  pinnacles  bathed  in  the  sunlight  above, 
Is  sparkles  to  chill  us  and  glitters  to  freeze, 

Thus  challenging  wonderment  rather  than  love. 

It  may  be,  indeed,  that  no  passion  combines 

With  the  skill  you  employ  among  people  so  cold, 
As  the  bird  for  a  sunnier  atmosphere  pines 

When  he  sings  in  a  cage,  though  the  bars  are  of  gold; 
Then  turn  to  a  region  less  socially  bleak 

Where  your  welcome  shall  spring  from  the  depths  of  the 

heart, 
Where  the  glad  ray  of  soul  shall  illumine  your  cheek 

And  feeling  give  warmth  to  the  efforts  of  Art! 


70 


JENNY  LIND  » 

NUNC   E8T    BIBENDUM 

COME  fill  the  cup  of  jubilee, 

And  raise  a  gaudeamus, 
For  venting  thus  our  Christmas  glee 

No  cynic  sure  can  blame  us: 
We  echo  but  the  daily  press — 

The  joy  of  Mr.  Ritchie — 
Our  own  delight  is  none  the  less 

We've  heard  the  cantatricet 

Oh,  sweet  are  Jenny's  winning  ways, 

And  pure  is  her  soprano, 
And  excellently  well  she  plays 

Upon  the  grand  piano: 
And  like  an  angel's  is  the  smile 

That  o'er  her  features  bright'ning 
Still  flashes  round  her,  all  the  while, 

Its  vivid  summer-lightning. 

How  shall  we  speak  of  that  brief  dream 

That  passed  so  quickly  o'er  us, 
Win Trin  we  caught  the  radiant  gleam 

And  heard  the  heavenly  chorus 
Awhile  we  walked  adown  the  lawn 

Of  early,  beauteous  Eden, 
Or  strayed  at  rosy  break  of  dawn 

Along  the  hills  of  Sweden. 
71 


72  JENNY  LIND 

And  when,  next  day,  her  coach  and  pair 

Were  to  the  depot  driven, 
We  stood  like  Pilgrim  at  the  Fair 

When  Faithful  flew  to  heaven. 
Alas!  the  bird,  indeed,  had  flown 

On  lightest,  swiftest  pinions, 
To  seek  a  yet  more  sunny  zone 

Among  the  Carolinians. 


A  RETROSPECT  OF  1849 

THERE  is  a  solemn  peal  of  midnight  bells, 

Heard  from  the  distant  horologe  of  Time, 
That  marks  the  closing  year,  and  sadly  tells, 

"With  sullen  roar,"  its  darkened  deeds  of  crime. 

In  what  a  mournful,  though  expressive  chime, 
Drearier  than  monotone,  shall  it  bewail 

The  twelve-month  newly  gone — what  "Runic  rhyme" 
Shall  it  employ,  to  give  the  tragic  tale 
Of  all  its  scenes  of  blood  and  terror  to  the  gale? 

How  shall  it  toll  of  India's  thousands  slain  ? 

"India  is  quiet,"  says  the  Morning  Post. 
"The  last  despatches  tell  of  order's  reign." 

"Order"  that  Selkirk  found  upon  the  coast 

Of  the  lone  island  where  his  bark  was  tost — 
"Order,"  such  as  the  sacred  record  saith 

Reigned  in  the  tents  of  the  Assyrian  host, 
When,  touched  by  the  dread  angel's  blighting  breath, 
The  proud,  exulting  foe  lay  hushed  in  stony  death. 

O  mother  country !  home  of  all  the  arts, 

Seat  of  all  wisdom,  learning,  justice,  grace, 
A  bright  example  your  career  imparts 

The  trans- Atlantic  off -shoot  of  your  race; 

For  when  the  triumphs  of  your  arms  we  trace 
From  proud  Benares  to  Moultan,  we  may  know 

How  Christian  nations  can  despoil,  deface 
The  fairest  cities  of  a  Heathen  for, 
If  costly  gems  and  gold  reward  them  as  they  go! 
79 


74  A  RETROSPECT  OF  1849 

Sweet  Lady — thou  that  wear'st  the  coronet 
Of  England's  sovereignty — we  call  thy  name 

In  kindness:  let  no  pillaged  pearls  be  set 
Among  thy  jewels;  let  thy  gentle  fame 
Be  all  unmixed  with  memories  of  shame; 

Lift  up  the  Irish  people:  make  it  known 
A  Queen  can  answer  Nature's  last  acclaim, 

And  the  bright  emerald  on  thy  brow  that  shone, 

Shall  flash  as  never  flashed  the  Ko-hi-noor's  rich  stone. 

But  in  the  hurried  retrospective  glance 

Which  we  would  take  of  the  departing  year, 
How  shall  we  blush  for  the  Republic,  France, 

That  she  among  the  spoilers  should  appear? 

Who  has  not  shed  the  sympathising  tear 
For  freedom  stifled  in  Rienzi's  home, 

That  men  who  boast  their  liberty  should  rear 
Their  frowning  guns  to  shatter  arch  and  dome 
Upon  the  sacred  hills  of  everlasting  Rome ! 

And  Kossuth,  valiant  leader  of  the  brave, 
How  have  we  read  the  story  of  thy  fall ! 

What  though  the  Austrian  ensign  yet  may  wave 
Its  crimsoned  folds  o'er  Brescia's  prostrate  wall, — 
The  Grecian  maids  that  decked  the  coronal 

With  laurels  fresh  and  fragrant  for  the  free, 
Who  rushed  to  victory  at  their  country's  call, 

Where  classic  "Marathon  looks  on  the  sea," 

No  brighter  garland  wove  than  we  would  twine  for  thee ! 

Yet  are  there  others  that  deserve  the  wreath, 
Venice,  thy  sons,  who  in  the  hour  of  dread, 

Drew  forth  the  blade  and  threw  away  the  sheath, 
While  starving  women  cried  aloud  for  bread — 


A  RETROSPECT  OF  1849  75 

Could  Harrow  render  back  its  noble  dead, 
The  Poet-hero  whoso  resounding  line 

Once  mourned  thy  fallen  state,  thy  grandeur  fled, 
Inspired  by  this  new  "tale  of  Troy  devine," 
Should  lift,  to  hymn  thy  praise,  a  statelier  ode  than  mine. 

And  what  of  young  Columbia,  Freedom's  child, 

\\hat  crime  of  i'ers  is  borne  upon  the  breeze? 
The  Western  "Pallas  armed  and  undefiled," 

Is  she  yet  stainless  upon  land  and  seas? 

Yes !  she  obeys  the  Almighty's  high  decrees, 
And  grows  abundantly  beneath  His  care. 

Like  the  great  monarch  of  the  Indian  trees 
Which  spreads  its  props  abroad,  its  weight  to  share, 
And  sends  its  branches  high  into  the  topmost  air. 

Still  a  fell  spirit  is  abroad  to-day, 

A  blind  fanaticism,  which  would  wage 
A  war  upon  her  rule,  and  cast  away 

The  glorious  promise  of  maturer  age — 

Forbear,  rash  zealots,  your  ignoble  raue, 
For  he  whose  folly  brings  DtffUfttOfl'f  train, 

Shall  stand  upon  a  future  Gibbon's  page 
The  Erostratus  of  a  loftier  fane 
Than  earth,  tliroughout  all  time,  shall  ever  see  again. 


SONNETS  TO  WINTER 

It  was  a  remark  of  one  of  the  Spanish  kings  that  the  four  great 
est  blessings  in  life  were  Old  Wine  to  Drink,  Old  Wood  to  Burn, 
Old  Books  to  Read,  and  Old  Friends  to  Love. 


OLD    WINE    TO    DRINK 

YES!  fill  the  goblet  high  with  generous  wine, 
As  sparkling  as  the  draughts  of  ancient  Massic 
Or  old  Falernian  made  by  Horace  classic, 
Brought  from  the  sunny  valleys  of  the  Rhine 
And  throwing  off  their  daughter's  brilliant  glances — 
Just  as  the  diamond,  long  obscured  from  sight, 
With  all  the  rays  it  last  absorbed  is  bright, 
This  wine,  as  o'er  the  festal  board  it  dances, 
Gives  back  the  flashes  from  the  beaming  eye 
Of  the  brown  vineyard  beauty,  on  our  meeting: 
Fill  up !  to  friends  a  kind,  a  cordial  greeting, 
And  though  December's  winds  may  rustle  by 
And  lead  the  howlings  of  the  furious  storm, 
Our  faces  kindle  and  our  hearts  are  warm. 

II 

OLD   WOOD   TO   BURN 

Old  wood  to  burn ! — hew  down  the  highest  trunk 
On  Alleghanean  ridges,  seen  afar — 
A  monarch  crowned  with  his  imperial  star — 

Against  the  crimson  where  the  sun  has  sunk. 

The  sharp  axe,  glittering  in  his  kingly  heart, 
Sends  echo  ringing  through  the  golden  woods — 
And  then  a  crashing  fall ! — like  bursting  floods 
76 


SONNETS  TO  WINTER  77 

roar  the  surges  and  great  mountains  part! 
The  dim  year  wanes — I  see  an  indoor  sight — 
H right  faces  gathered  round  a  blazing  fire 
At  Yule  or  Pentecost  when  rising  higher, 
The  frolic-mirth  draws  gladness  from  the  light— 
Of  that  old  oak  that  towering  once  so  vast, 
Laughed  at  the  storm,  and  whistled  at  the  blast! 

Ill 

OLD   BOOKS   TO   READ 

Reach  from  their  dusty  places  of  repose 
A  Virgil's  lay  or  "Livy's  pictured  page," 
The  varied  lore  of  an  Augustan  age — 

What  visions  panoramic  they  disclose ! 

With  o'er  attentive  faculties  we  hear 

The  wandering  minstrelsy  of  Scio's  bard — 
Poor  houseless  tenant  of  a  life  ill-starred — 

Or  catch  the  minster  music  of  the  seer 

Chanting  of  Paradise  "and  all  our  wo.'* 

Then,  with  the  Christian  Pilgrim  for  our  guide, 
We  safely  pass  the  dark  and  bridgeless  tide 

To  Beulah's  land  where  flow'rets  ever  blow: 

Of  Shakespeare's  heroes  trace  the  storied  line, 

Or  weigh  the  mercies  of  the  Book  divine ! 

IV 

OLD    FRIENDS   TO    LOVE 

Old  friends  to  love! — true  soul  bound  to  true  soul 
With  olden  memories,  and  traces  dear 
Of  the  dead  past,  claiming  the  happy  tear 

That  still  at  sight  of  each  will  fondly  roll ! 

Old  friends!    No  sycophants  of  yesterday, 


78  SONNETS  TO  WINTER 

With  smiles  and  protestations  never  done, 
Bright  summer-flies,  true  "lovers  of  the  sun" 

And  all  who  bask  beneath  the  golden  ray. 

Old  friends  I  who,  on  the  battle-field  of  life, 
When  closed  the  serried  hosts  in  stormy  fight, 
Have  raised  the  buckler  Friendship  strong  and  bright 

And  borne  us  bleeding  from  the  mortal  strife, 

Who  heart-whole,  pure  in  faith,  once  written  friend, 

In  life  and  death  are  true  unto  the  end ! 


THE  WINDOW-PANES  AT  BRANDON 

Upon  the  window-panes  at  Brandon,  on  James  River,  are  inscribed 
the  names,  cut  with  a  diamond  rintf.  of  many  of  tho.se  who  compu.M-d 
the  Christmas  and  May  parties  of  that  hospitable  mansion  in  years 
gone  by. 

As  within  the  old  mansion  the  holiday  throng 

Reassembles  in  beauty  and  grace, 
And  sonic  eye  looking  out  of  the  window  by  chance, 

These  memorial  records  may  trace — 
How  the  past,  like  a  swift-coming  haze  from  the  sea, 

In  an  instant  surrounds  us  once  more, 
While  the  shadowy  figures  of  those  we  have  loved, 

All  distinctly  are  seen  on  the  shore! 

Through  the  vista  of  years,  sti etching  dimly  away, 

We  but  look,  and  a  vision  behold- 
Like  some  magical  picture  the  sunset  reveals 

W  ith  its  colors  of  crimson  and  gold, — 
All  suffused  with  the  glow  of  the  hearth's  ruddy  blaze, 

From  beneath  the  gay  "mistletoe  bough," 
There  are  faces  that  break  into  smiles  as  divinely 

As  any  that  beam  on  us  now.  \ 

While  the  old  year  departing  strides  ghost-like  along 

O'er  the  hills  that  are  dark  with  the  storm, 
To  the  New  the  brave  beaker  is  filled  to  the  brim, 

And  the  play  of  affection  is  warm: 
Look  once  more — as  the  garlanded  Spring  reappears, 

In  her  footsteps  we  welcome  a  train 
Of  fair  women,  whose  eyes  are  as  bright  as  the  gem 

That  has  cut  their  dear  names  on  the  pane. 
79 


80  THE  WINDOW-PANES  AT  BRANDON 

From  the  canvas  of  Vandyke  or  Kneller  that  hang 

On  the  old-fashioned  wainscoted  wall, 
Stately  ladies,  the  favored  of  poets,  look  down 

On  the  guests  and  the  revel  and  all; 
But  their  beauty,  though  wedded  to-  eloquent  verse, 

And  though  rendered  immortal  by  Art, 
Yet  outshines  not  the  beauty  that,  breathing  below, 

In  a  moment  takes  captive  the  heart. 

Many  winters  have  since  frosted  over  these  panes 

With  the  tracery  work  of  the  rime; 
Many  Aprils  have  brought  back  the  birds  to  the  lawn 

From  some  far-away  tropical  clime: 
But  the  guests  of  the  season,  alas!  where  are  they? 

Some  the  shores  of  the  stranger  have  trod, 
And  some  names  have  been  long  ago  carved  on  the  stone, 

Where  they  sweetly  rest  under  the  sod. 

How  uncertain  the  record !  the  hand  of  a  child 

In  its  innocent  sport,  unawares, 
May,  at  any  time,  lucklessly  shatter  the  pane, 

And  thus  cancel  the  story  it  bears; 
Still  a  portion,  at  least,  shall  uninjured  remain 

Unto  trustier  tablets  consigned, 
The  fond  names  that  survive  in  the  memory  of  friends 

Who  yet  linger  a  season  behind. 

Recollect,  young  soul,  with  ambition  inspired ! 

Let  the  moral  be  read  as  we  pass; 
Recollect,  the  illusory  tablets  of  fame 

Have  been  ever  as  brittle  as  glass; 
Oh,  then  be  not  content  with  the  name  there  inscribed. 

For  as  well  may  you  trace  it  in  dust; 
But  resolve  to  record  it,  where  long  it  shall  stand, 

In  the  hearts  of  the  good  and  the  just. 


TO   BULWER 

[ON    A    SECOND    UKADIXG    OF    "THE    CAXTo\s"j 

BULWER,  with  brimming  eyes  I've  read  airain 
That  fireside  fiction  of  thy  riper  yrar- 
And  I  could  blend  thanksgiving  with  my  tears, 
If  'twould  but  please  tliee,  but  the  thought  is  vain-  - 
And  often,  when  my  Black  wood  domes,  I  find 
At  "Sisty's"  story  my  eyelids  fill, 
As  the  rich  thoughts  and  sentiments  distil 
From  the  alembic  of  thy  glowing  mind: 
The  spell  of  genius  and  the  stamp  of  art 
In  all  thy  former  works  the  reader  • 

But  thou  hast  niched  the  "household  gods"  in  ///»•  <, 
They  give  a  deep  assurance  of  a  heart 
Whose  pulses  beat  in  sympathy  with  man. 
And  in  harmonious  chord  with  the  Eternal  Plan  ! 


si 


TO  ONE  IN  AFFLICTION 

DEAR  friend !  if  word  of  mine  could  seal 
The  bitter  fount  of  all  thy  tears, 
And  through  the  future's  cloudy  years 
Some  glimpse  of  sunshine  yet  reveal- 
That  word  I  might  not  dare  to  speak: 
A  father's  sorrow  o'er  his  child 
So  sacred  seems  and  undefiled, 
To  bid  it  cease  we  may  not  seek. 

Thy  little  boy  has  passed  away 

From  mortal  sight  and  mortal  love, 
To  join  the  shining  choir  above 

And  dwell  amid  the  perfect  day; 

All  robed  in  spotless  innocence, 
And  fittest  for  celestial  things, 
O'ershadowed  by  her  rustling  wings 

The  angel  softly  led  him  hence: 

As  pure  as  if  the  gentle  rain 

Of  his  baptismal  morn  had  sought 
His  bosom's  depths,  and  ev'ry  thought 

Has  sweetly  cleansed  from  earthly  stain. 

Such  blest  assurance  brings,  I  know, 
To  bleeding  hearts  but  sad  relief— 
The  dark  and  troubled  tide  of  grief 

Must  have  its  painful  ebb  and  flow — 


TO  ONE  IN   AFFLICTION  83 

And  most  of  all  when  thou  dost  plod 

Alone,  upon  these  wintry  days, 

Along  the  old  familiar  ways 
Wherein  his  little  feet  have  trod. 

And  thou  dost   treasure  up  his  words, 
The  fragments  of  his  earnest  talk 
On  some  remembered  morning  walk, 

When,  at  the  song  of  earliest  birds, 

He'd  ask  of  thee,  with  charmed  look, 
And  smile  upon  his  features  spread, 
Whose  careful  hand  the  birds  had  fed, 

And  filled  the  ever-running  brook? 

Or  viewing,  from  the  distant  glade, 
The  dim  horizon  round  his  home, 
With  simplest  speech  and  air  would  come 

And  ask  why  were  the  mountains  made? 

Be  strong,  my  friend,  these  days  of  doom 
Are  but  the  threads  of  darkest  hue 
That  daily  enter  to  renew 

The  warp  of  the  Eternal  Loom. 

Ajid  when  to  us  it  shall  be  given 

In  joy  to  see  the  other  side, 

These  threads  the  brightest  shall  abide 
In  the  fair  tapestries  of  Heaven! 


VIOLANTE 

[SKETCHED  FROM  "MY  NOVEL"  BY  BULWER] 

ALACK!  for  Violante — 

We've  sought  for  her  in  vain, 
Beneath  the  lime-tree's  pleasant  shade 

In  every  walk  and  lane: 
The  proud  old  house  is  desolate, 

Its  inmates  sad  to  see — 
That  bright  Italian  maiden, 

Alas !  where  can  she  be  ? 

The  beauteous  Violante, 

Alone,  was  latest  seen 
Just  where  the  marble  fountain 

Tossed  up  its  sunset  sheen — 
But  when  the  darkness  gathered  fast 

The  lofty  halls  along, 
She  came  no  more  to  gladden  them 

With  love  and  grace  and  song. 

The  cruel  Violante ! 

Her  father's  face  is  pale 
And  ever  faithful  Giacomo 

Can  only  "weep  and  wail," 
Now,  Holy  Mother,  guard  us ! 

It  was  a  grievous  wo 
The  darling  child  should  blindly  trust 

The  father's  deadliest  foe. 
84 


VIOLANTE  85 

The  hapless  Violante! 

Could  she  avoid  tin1  snare. 
Which  wily,  wicked  hands  had  ^-1 

For  innocence  so  rare? 
Alas  for  gentle  girlishne^  ' 

When  first  it  shall  begin 
To  hear,  Imt  too  confidingly. 

The  charmed  voice  of  sin. 

The  saint-like  Yiolante 

Yet  walks  from   harm  secure. 
The  demon  Count  can  work  no  ill 

t'nto  a  thing  so  pure; 
For  all  her  soft  humanities, 

Which  kept   us  in  control, 
Are  but  celestial  messengers 

That  wait   upon  her  soul. 

The  queenly  Yiolante 

Shall  come  to  us  again, 
With  troops  of  gallant  gentlemen 

And  nobles  in  her  train; 
And  we  will  twine  a  bridal  wreath 

And  deck  the  festal  hall, 
For  she  shall  wed  in  honor  there 

The  noblest  of  them  all! 


TO 

[ON  BEING  ASKED  BY  HER  TO  WRITE  VERSES  FOR  HER  SINGING] 

FROM  jewelled  goblets  we  demand 

The  choicest  wine  alone — 
And  statues  from  the  master's  hand 

Should  be  of  whitest  stone. 
Then  wherefore  ask  for  words  of  mine? 

The  thought  itself  were  wrong; 
Thy  glorious  voice  should  but  enshrine 

The  purest  pearls  of  song ! 


BENEDICITE 

I  SAW  her  move  along  the  aisle — 
The  chancel  lustres  burned  the  while — 
With  bridal  roses  in  her  hair; 
Oh !  never  seemed  she  half  so  fair. 

A  manly  form  stood  by  her  side. 
We  knew  him  worthy  such  a  bride: 
And  prayers  went  up  to  God  above 
To  bless  them  with  immortal  love. 

The  vow  was  said.     I  know  not  yet 
But  some  were  filled  with  fond  regret: 
So  much  a  part  of  us  she  seemed 
To  lose  her  quite  we  had  not  dreamed. 

Like  the  "fair  Ines,"  loved,  caressed, 
She  went  into  the  shining  West, 
And  though  one  heart  with  joy  flowed  o'er, 
Like  her,  she  saddened  many  more. 

Lady!  though  far  from  childhood's  things 
Thy  gentle  spirit  folds  its  wings, 
We  offer  now  for  him  and  thee 
A  tearful  Benedicite! 


87 


UNWRITTEN  MUSIC 

COULD  I  but  all  the  glorious  sounds  combine 
That  sometimes  fill  the  chambers  of  my  soul, 

Songs  of  this  earth  and  melodies  divine, 
In  one  majestic  whole — 

A  brave  composer  I  might  be  confest, 

And  round  the  world  my  humble  name  might  ring, 
With  richest  honors  and  ascriptions  drest 

For  what  I  then  should  sing. 

All  jocund,  jubilant,  rejoiceful  airs — 
The  elfin  mirth  of  fair  Titania's  train — 

The  laugh  of  L' Allegro,  dispelling  cares, 
Should  sweetly  swell  the  strain. 

The  tinkling  bells  of  cattle  homeward  bent, 
WTafted  o'er  fragrant  meadows,  should  unite 

With  childhood's  loud,  capricious  merriment, 
In  many-toned  delight. 

The  lull  of  falling  waters,  and  the  store 
Of  feathered  music,  from  the  Asian  trees, 

Should  meet  and  mingle  with  the  distant  roar 
Of  everlasting  seas. 

The  silvery  voice  of  woman,  such  as  oft 

In  mystic  dreamland  round  about  us  swims, 

Should  join  with  tones  descending  full  and  soft 
From  saintly  choral  hymns. 


ITWMUTHA    MTSIC 

Til.-  da  MX  <>f  trumpets,  ere  the  combat  cease, 
War's  proudest  note,  to  sweet  accord  should  come 

With  that  dear  anthem  of  abundant  Peace  — 
The  laborer's  Harvest-Home. 


Alas!  /  nnrr  xltdll  these  sounds  combine, 
This  new  "Creation"  is  not  yet  for  me, 

These  richest  honors  I  can  but  resign: 
Another's  may  they  be! 

Still  shall  I  praise  the  Giver  of  all  Good 

That,  in  my  waking  and  my  nightly  dreams, 

I  'p«"i  i»y  raptured  sense  this  glorious  flood 
Of  wondrous  music  streams. 


WEBSTER 

OCTOBER    24,  1852 


THE  boom  of  sad  artillery  is  heard 

Through  mightiest  commonwealths,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Webster  now  sleeps,  "life's  fitful  fever"  o'er. 

The  man  of  intellect,  whose  single  word 

The  depths  of  human  sentiment  has  stirred, — 

These  refluent  tides  shall  own  his  sway  no  more: — 
The  Eloquent  of  speech,  who  dared  to  soar 

With  tireless  wing  of  Appalachian  bird, 

Right  upward  to  serene,  unclouded  skies: 
Let  thunder  then  from  funeral  guns  resound, 
And  banners  droop  in  sorrow  to  the  ground, 

And  tears  start  freshly  from  "a  nation's  eyes" 
Yet  dim  with  weeping  o'er  the  heroic  dust 
Of  his  two  stately  peers,  the  gifted  and  the  just ! 

II 

If  he  had  foibles,  let  us  kindly  fling 

Oblivion's  mantle  here  above  them  all, 

And  in  this  hour  of  grief  alone  recall 
Those  nobler  virtues  that  can  ever  spring 
From  littleness  of  soul;    and  let  us  bring 

Some  flowers  as  fadeless  to  bedeck  his  pall 

As  those  on  which  his  fancy's  sunbeams  fall,— 
And  let  our  future  poets  learn  to  sing 
How  in  the  Senate  house  he  stood  erect, 

90 


WEBSTER  91 

And  battled  always  for  his  Country's  cause, — 
Her  shrines,  her  Constitution  and  her  laws, — 
And  how,  when  treason  rose  from  Faction's  sect, 
He  turned  Columbia's  aegis  on  the  crime 
And  froze  it  into  silence  for  all  time ! 

Ill 

My  country,  mother  of  the  mighty!  thou 
That  sitt'st  in  stony  anguish  at  the  grave 
Where  cypress  branches,  twined  with  laurel,  wave, 

Dispel  the  shadow  from  thy  luminous  brow ! 

The  God  thou  worshippest  did  ne'er  allow 
The  good,  the  great,  the  gifted  or  the  brave 

To  live  or  die  for  naught;   and  brightly  now, 
Above  the  spots  where  fond  affection  gave 

f'ulhoun  and  Clay,  the  giant  dead,  to  earth, 
A  guiding  star  is  blazing  in  the  sky; 

So  shall  a  beacon  have  its  radiant  birth 
From  Webster's  ashes,  and  so  fixed  on  high, 

Its  steady  and  immortal  fires  shall  burn 

Wide  over  land  and  sea,  while  seasons  yet  return ! 


A  LETTER 

RICHMOND,  23  August,  1852. 
DEAR  COOKE: 

IN  Richmond  still,  against  your  shrewd  surmise, 

I  write  your  recent  letters  to  acknowledge, 

And  to  narrate  such  gossip  of  the  town 

As  may  to  your  amusement  most  conduce. 

The  town  itself  is  dull  and  hot,  ye  gods ! 

That  Virgil  placed  in  Tartarus— how  hot ! 

And  therefore  little  shall  I  have  to  tell 

Of  gossip,  or  of  other  kind  of  news, 

Where  naught  is  stirring  save  the  mercury 

Along  the  vitreous  tube  of  Fahrenheit. 

The  streets  present  a  kind  of  "aching  void" 

Where,  now  and  then,  an  omnibus  appears 

Looking  "like  furnace,"  in  the  boiling  sun, 

In  which  a  single  salamander  sits. 

All  trade  is  stopped;    the  carts  of  melons 

The  Hanoverian  vendors  used  to  sell 

Have  also  disappeared;   eleventh  street 

Is  left  to  Goddin  and  his  crew  alone 

Wrapped  in  the  awful  solitude 

Of  their  rapacious,  grasping  usury. 

'Tis  well,  my  friend,  you  should  affect  to  doubt 
My  state  of  durance  in  the  damned  town. 
You  perched  high  up  upon  a  mountain  range 
Where  breezily  and  brightly  comes  the  day 
In  sunrise  gorgeous  (which  you  never  see) 
92 


A   LETTER  9J 

Ami  goes  in  pomp  of  crimson  drapery. 

Curtained  with  clouds,  which  you  spin  out  in  verse — 

(The  clouds,  I  mean,  which  make  the  verse  obscure, 

Kven  while  they  give  it  their  most  radiant  hue), 

'Tis  well,  I  say,  you  should  pretend  to  think 

I  have  escaped  my  prison,  and  away 

I'Yom  bars  of  all  sorts,  taste  the  precious  sweets 

Of  liberty,  that  Lovelace  praised  so  well. 

Alas !     I  find  that  bars  do  make  a  cage, 

Not  the  dread  Hustings'  Bar  nor  yet  our  William's, 

Who  waits  so  well  at  the  American — 

Nor  yet  the  bar  below  our  wharves,  where  ships 

Do  constitutionally  stick  i'  the  mud — 

But  bars  of  duty,  in  the  form  of  notes 

Due  at  the  Farmer's  Bank,  and  direful  proofs — 

Proof  never  is  but  always  to  be  read — 

For  which  Macfarlane  waits:    so  'twixt  the  two, 

The  Printer  and  the  President,  Macs  both, 

Deacon  and  devil,  yet  arcades  ambo? 

(Save  the  great  diff'rence  between  "d"  and  "e") 

I  stand  as  surely  prisoner  to  the  town 

As  Althea's  lover  was  to  parliament. 

Yet  like  him  "linnet-like  confined,  I" 

Can  sing  as  gaily  unto  thee,  my  Cooke, 

Though  not,  perhaps,  as  sweetly,  "cos,  d'ye  see?" 

You're  not  a  nice  young  woman  like  Althea. 

Then  let  me  tell  you  once  for  all,  again, 

That  not  for  me  the  country  breezes  blow. 

That  not  for  me  the  mountain  lifts  its  head, 

That  not  for  me  the  ocean  crests  its  waves, 

But  "cabined,  cribbed,"  upon  the  land  I  stay, 

A  hopeless  cockney,  with  the  bricks  around 

And  mortar,  mortar  everywhere  in  view. 


94  A  LETTER 

We've  had  some  politics  since  you  went  off — 

Torchlight  processions  and  transparencies — 

And  speeches  at  the  African;    and  one 

Was  of  the  better  sort  of  such  affairs, 

I  mean  one  speech,  from  Mr.  Winter  Davis 

\Vho  though  called  Winter  warmed  us  very  much 

And  used  the  Locos  in  a  summary  way. 

(The  pun  is  Horace  Smith's,  or  James's, 

Or  Hook's,  or  Hood's — at  least  it  is  not  mine; 

But  it  came  up  so  pat  to  my  steel  pen 

I  thought  I'd  hook  it  while  I  did  not  steel  it). 

This  Mr.  Davis  is  a  brick,  I  tell  ye, 

"One  in  a  thousand,"  and  comes  down  as  heavy. 

He  is  an  orator  as  Brutus  was, 

Though  Mr.  W'illiam  Ritchie  says  his  speech 

Was  no  great  shakes,  and  so  perhaps  I'm  wrong. 

John  Daniel  has  been  up  to  Charlottes ville 

To  take  a  challenge  to  one  Dr.  Carr. 

Paululus  Powell  was  the  challenger. 

Against  this  Carr  he  waxed  exceeding  wroth, 

And  fully  thought  to  run  him  off  the  track. 

But  Carr,  it  seems,  was  piously  inclined, 

And  liked  not  such  collisions  as  a  duel, 

However  much  he  might  be  prone  to  rail; 

And  therefore  John  M.  quietly  brought  back 

The  little  missive  he  so  fiercely  carried — 

But  not  before  the  Albemarle  police 

Had  taken  him  before  a  magistrate 

And  had  him  held  to  bail.     You've  seen,  no  doubt, 

The  powescondence  in  the  Richmond  Whig — 

So  majora  canamus  paulo,  let  us  speak 

Of  greater  things  than  Mr.  Paulus  Powell. 


A  LETTER  95 

The  country  letters  you  must  surely  write, 
And  I  shall  look  for  them  before  you  come — 
Reserving  them  an  honorable  place 
In  my  October  number,  for  the  next 
Is  more  than  full  already,  and,  without 
An  accident,  will  be  delivered  here 
And  sent  abroad  about  the  first  proximo. 
"Bachelor  Smith"  is  sent  herewith  to  guard 
This  letter  in  the  mail-bag,  and  I  think 
Will  prove  a  capital  companion  for  it. 

Pray  let  me  hear  from  you  without  delay, 
And  with  assurances  of  high  regard 
Believe  me  ever         Very  truly  yours, 

J.  R.  T. 
John  Esten  Cooke,  Esq. 


"BRIGHTLY,  WITH  THE  ELFIN  TRAIN 
ATTENDED" 

BRIGHTLY,  with  the  elfin  train  attended, 
Comes  the  happy  daisy-sandalled  May: 

Never  walked  on  earth  a  queen  so  splendid. 
Nor  in  such  magnificent  array. 

Beauteous  as  the  Florentine  Aurora, 
Jocund  over  misty  mountain  tops, 

Luminously  on  she  moves,  while  Flora 

Blessings  newly-blossomed  round  her  drops. 

Gay  the  robe  that  Nature,  her  costumer, 
In  a  gleeful  moment,  lightly  cast 

On  this  first  and  fairest  Mrs.  Bloomer, 
As  from  out  her  tiring-room  she  passed. 

Now  the  birds,  from  southern  tours  arriving. 
Give  their  well-attended  matinees; 

Feathers  thus  are  everywhere  reviving, 

While  some  furze  the  morning  still  displays. 

Let  us  hear  these  exquisite  performers — 

Nature's  Philharmonic  on  the  hills- 
Better  far  than  half-a-dozen  Normas 
Is  the  store  of  music  in  their  bills. 

Fashion  likes  not  "singing  for  the  inillion"- 
Yet  forbear,  fair  reader,  all  remarks: 

Neither  Lady  Dash  nor  Lord  Trevilian 
Moves  in  higher  circles  than  the  larks. 
96 


"BRIGHTLY.  WITH  THE  ELFIN  TRAIN"          07 

Farh  new  port   with  his  latest  fancies 

May's  soft  j>rui-<->  «l«-ftly  intrr\vra\  • 
While  each  grove  brings  out  hrr  new  romances 

In  a  multiplicity  of  leaves. 

Authors  now  most  winningly  invite  us 
With  the  mental  stimulus  they  bring, 

Hawthorne  ne'er  so  freshly  can  delight  us 

Nor  "Holm(e)s"  seem  so  "bonny"  as  in  Spring. 

Tityrus,  sub  tegmine  reclining, 

Finds  in  Punch  a  pleasant  morning  dram, 
And,  when  comes  the  proper  hour  for  dining. 

Relishes  a  little  taste  of  Lamb. 

Requiescat,  genial  Lamb,  in  pace  I 

Rest  forever  quietly  in  peas, 
With  such  Attic  salt,  so  very  racy, 

As  in  Saxe  one  uniformly  sees. 

Stately  be  thy  step  among  the  pansies 
Winsome,  wondrous,  ever-smiling  May, 

June  with  garish  retinue  advances 
To  usurp  thy  gentle,  queenly  sway. 


L'ENVOI 

[TO  VOLUME  XIX  OP  THE  "SOUTHERN  LITERARY  MESSENGER"] 

THE  Volume  closes  as  the  year  departs — 
And  as  the  showman  when  the  play  is  done, 
Puts  up  the  puppets  that  our  praise  have  won, 

So  we,  with  not  the  gladsomest  of  hearts, 

Shut  up  our  box  and  bid  our  friends  adieu 
A  little  while,  for  when  the  Old  Year's  fled 

And  bravely  down  the  highway  conies  the  New 
We'll  open  it  again,  by  purpose  led 

To  please  you,  gentle  reader,  as  we  trust — 
And  some  new  comers  to  our  varied  show. 

Meanwhile,  right  graciously  accept  you  must 
A  "Merry  Christmas"  from  us  as  we  go. 

With  mirth  and  music  may  the  happy  time 

Glide  with  you  softly  as  the  poet's  rhyme ! 


98 


THE  BRAVE 

[TO    THE    HOWARD    ASSOCIATION   OF   NEW    ORLEANS] 

WE  call  him  brave  who,  when  the  trumpet's  blare 
Rang  o'er  the  field  of  glory  and  of  blood. 
Went  where  the  fight  was  deadliest,  and  stood 

Where  duty  placed  him,  with  unaltered  air: 

For  him  the  golden  guerdon  waits — the  fame 

\Vhich  blows  his  deeds  the  extending  fields  along; 

The  poet  weaves  in  tuneful  verse  his  name, 
And  woman  sweetly  utters  it  in  song. 

No  recompense  like  this  for  ye  remains, 
Men  of  a  loftier  courage  yet  than  War 

Could  boast  upon  her  drenched  and  crimsoned  plains, 
But  ye  have  won  a  garland  better  far 

Than  fading  laurel,  and  a  fame  above 

What  earth  can  ever  give,  Heaven's  Messengers  of  Love ! 


AUTUMN  LINES 

GONE  is  the  golden  October 

Down  the  swift  current  of  time, 

Month  by  the  poets  called  sober, 
Just  for  the  sake  of  the  rhyme. 

Tints  of  vermilion  and  yellow 
Margined  the  forest  and  stream; 

Poets  then  told  us  'twas  mellow, 
How  inconsistent  they  seem ! 

Now,  while  the  mountain  in  shadow 
Dappled  and  hazy  appears, 

While  the  late  corn  in  the  meadow, 
Culprit-like,  loses  its  ears. 

Get  some  choice  spirits  together, 
Bring  out  the  dogs  and  the  guns, 

Follow  the  birds  o'er  the  heather, 
Where  the  "cold  rivulet"  runs. 

Look  for  them  under  the  cover, 
Just  as  the  pole-star  at  sea 

Always  is  sought  by  the  rover, 
Near  where  the  pointers  may  be. 

Yet  if  your  field-tramping  brothers 
Should  not  be  fellows  of  mark, 

Leave  the  young  partridge  for  others, 
Only  make  sure  of  a  lark. 
100 


AUTUMN  LINES  101 

Thus  shall  the  charms  of  the  season 
Gently  throw  round  you  their  spell, 

Thus  enjoy  nature  in  reason 
If  in  the  country  you  dwell. 

But  if  condemned  as  a  denizen 

In  a  great  town  to  reside, 
Take  down  a  volume  of  Tennyson, 

Make  him  do  service  as  guide. 

Borne  upon  poesy's  pinion, 

Rise  to  the  heights  that  he  gains, 

Range  over  Fancy's  dominion, 
Walk  hypothetical  plains. 

Soon  shall  the  wintry  December 

Darken  above  us  the  sky — 
Winds  their  old  custom  remember 

All,  in  a  spree,  to  get  high: 

And,  as  they  wail  through  the  copses, 

Dirge-like  and  solemn  to  hear. 
Nature's  own  grand  Thanatopsis 

Sadly  shall  strike  the  ear. 

But  all  impressions  so  murky 

Instantly  banish  like  care, 
Turn  to  the  ham  and  the  turkey 

Christmas  shall  shortly  prepare. 

None  than  yourself  can  be  richer, 

Seated  at  night  by  the  hearth, 
With  an  old  friend  and  a  pitcher 

Lending  a  share  of  the  mirth. 


102  AUTUMN  LINES 

Then  to  the  needy  be  given 
Aid  from  the  generous  boards, 

And  to  a  bountiful  Heaven 

Thanks  for  the  wealth  it  affords. 


THE   EXILE'S  SUNSET  SONG 

WHEN  from  thy  side,  love, 
In  silence  and  gloom, 
Half  broken-hearted, 

Fate  tore  me  away, 
All  humbled  in  pride,  love, 
I  thought,  in  my  doom, 
That  Hope  had  departed 
Forever  and  aye! 

But  Fate  may  not  banish 
From  memory's  store 
That  blissful  communion 

Of  years  that  are  flown, 
Nor  make  yet  to  vanish 
The  lustre  which  o'er 

Our  fond  thoughts  of  union 
So  tenderly  shone. 

And  still  o'er  the  ocean 
My  fancy  takes  flight 
Where  oft  I  see  gleaming 

Thy  figure  afar; 
And  I  think  with  emotion 
That  sometimes  at  night 

We  watch  the  same  beaming 
And  tremulous  star. 

The  sunsets  so  golden 

That  stream  round  me  here 
103 


104  THE  EXILE'S  SUNSET  SONG 

But  call  up  thy  shadow 

The  landscape  between; 
And  when  in.  the  olden 
Dim  season  so  dear 

It  tripped  o'er  the  meadow 
With  step  of  a  queen. 

As  the  light  of  the  moon,  love, 
Like  snow  softly  falls, 

And  rests  on  the  mountain 

And  silvers  the  sea, 
That  midnight  in  June,  love, 
My  mem'ry  recalls 

When  up  to  the  fountain 
I  clambered  with  thee. 

How  sweetly  the  river 
Reflected  the  ray 

Of  moon  through  the  willows 

Or  sun  o'er  the  hill; 
Does  the  moonbeam  there  quiver. 
The  sunset  there  play, 
Upon  its  gay  billows 
As  splendidly  still? 

My  spirit  is  weary — 
An  exile  I  grieve, 

When  morn's  early  voices 

A  glad  song  proclaim, 
And  the  faint  Miserere 
Of  nature  at  eve 
To  me  but  rejoices 
To  murmur  thy  name. 


THE  EXILE'S  SUNSET  SONG  105 

Yet  Hope,  reappearing, 
A  vision  unfolds 
Of  rapture  together 

In  joy's  happy  reign, 
When  love  all  endearing 
The  full  eye  beholds, 

We'll  walk  o'er  the  heather 
At  sunset  again. 


"AH!    FUTILE    THE    HOPE" 

AH  !  futile  the  hope  once  so  sweetly  expressed, 

Tom  Moore !  in  thy  verse  with  a  pathos  so  true 
That  when  in  the  grave  they  should  lay  thee  to  rest, 

Thy  faults  and  thy  follies  might  slumber  there,  too; 
Or,  if  they  were  ever  remembered,  'twere  only 

That  o'er  them  a  tear  might  in  silence  be  shed, 
To  moisten  the  turf,  in  the  valley  so  lonely, 

Where  Clio  her  vigils  keeps  o'er  the  dead ! 

For  long  ere  the  daisies  have  tufted  the  spot, 

There  comes  a  cold  critic,18  and,  after  his  kind, 
Recalls  all  those  follies,  by  others  forgot, 

And  plants  them  like  nettles  to  grow  there  entwined: 
Thus,  Envy,  in  triumph  at  last  thou  rejoicest; — 

When  Death  breaks  the  bowl  at  the  fountain  for  aye. 
What  once  shown  so  brightly  as  gold  of  the  choicest, 

As  valueless  lies  as  the  vilest  of  clay. 

We  crave  not  that  wonderful  sharpness  of  sight 

That  faults  microscopic  to  mark  cannot  fail, 
While  virtues,  like  luminous  orbs  of  the  night, 

Unseen  through  its  ken  may  in  majesty  sail: 
Still  less  do  we  wish  that  close  logic  to  borrow, 

Which  strives  to  enwrap  in  a  shadow  abhorred 
The  fondest  remembrance  that  woman  in  sorrow 

Can  cling  to — the  faith  and  the  love  of  her  lord. 
106 


"AH!    FUTILE  THE  HOPE"  107 

When  Quarterlies  long  sliall  have  mouldered,  and  deep 

O'er  the  fossils  of  critics  time's  strata  shall  lie, 
Moore's  verse  amaranthine  its  freshness  sliall  keep, 

As  fairly  as  when  it  first  bloomed  to  the  eye; 
And  though  other  minstrels  to  rapture  may  waken 

With  genius  as  cunning  the  strings  of  the  lyre, 
The  world  that  his  Melodies  captive  have  taken, 

Wrill  never  "let  song  so  enchanting  expire!" 


MY  MURRAY 

AT  Antwerp,  when  I  lost  my  way, 
And  far  through  crooked  paths  did  stray, 
Who  taught  me  where  my  lodgings  lay? 
My  Murray. 

Who  hinted  at  the  best  of  wine, 
And  told  me  always  where  to  dine 
Along  the  "wide  and  winding  Rhine?" 
My  Murray. 

Who  spoke  of  every  saintly  bone 
That  lined  the  churches  of  Cologne, 
And  Heir  Farina's  shop  make  known? 
My  Murray. 

At  Baden,  when  the  gay  roulette 
Attracted  all  the  faster  set, 
Who  kindly  warned  me  not  to  bet? 
My  Murray. 

Else  had  my  very  modest  purse 
Become  a  "ruin"  greatly  worse 
Than  any  in  Lord  Byron's  verse, 

My  Murray. 

Who  pointed  out,  on  every  wall, 
The  Rafaelles,  Rosas,  Guidos,  all 
The  famous  pictures,  great  and  small  ? 

My  Murray. 
108 


MY  MURRAY  109 

So  hast  thou  proved  the  trustiest  book 
That  ever  rambling  tourist  took 
For  Church,  for  Castle,  and  for  Cook, 
My  Murray. 

Munich,  August,  1854. 


THE  RHINE* 

BENEATH  these  castles  and  in  these  hotels 
We  walk  amidst  the  English:   in  proud  state 

Each  high  Milor  beholds  the  Drachenfels, 
"Doing"  the  classic  site,  nor  less  elate 
Than  smaller  heroes  just  from  Cripplegate. 

What  want  these  wandering  Britons  here  should  know 
But  poesy  their  travels  to  relate — 

A  Harold's  Pilgrimage  their  deeds  to  show 

And  what  they  fancied  wild  and  what  they  voted  "slow." 

In  their  baronial  trips  the  country  round 

What  checks  and  gaiters  on  the  Rhine  appear ! 
And  Murray,  in  red  muslin  weakly  bound, 

With  maps  provided,  serves  their  course  to  steer. 

(A  new  edition  comes  out  every  year). 
But  still  their  forte  is  sketching;    they  draw  on 

As  each  old  "castled  crag"  the  boat  gets  near, 
And  many  a  tower  in  sketch-book  badly  done 
Sees  the  discolored  Rhine  beneath  its  ruins  run. 

But  thou,  poetic  and  much  crowded  river, 
Making  thy  waves  a  highway  as  they  pass 

Through  banks  whose  grapes,  I  trust,  will  last  forever, 
Could  man  but  let  thee  rest  awhile,  alas, 
Nor  blacken  every  tree  and  blade  of  grass 

With  the  vile  smoke  of  steamers — we  might  see 
The  valley  with  some  comfort;   now  the  mass 

Of  travel  makes  thy  waters  seem  to  me 

As  they  a  super-terrene  sort  of  Styx  might  be. 

*  A  parody  of  stanzas  48.  49,  50  and  59  of  canto  III  of  Byron's 
Childe  Harold's  Pilgrimage. 

110 


THE  RHINE  111 

Adieu  to  thee,  fair  Rhine !    How  long  the  rhymer 

Would  linger  by  thee  on  his  careless  way, 
To  quench  his  daily  thirst  in  Rudeshheimer 

And  sing  its  praises  in  his  grateful  lay ! 

And  could  the  ceaseless  vultures  cease  to  prey 
On  self-exhausting  pockets,  it  were  here 

Where  Bacchus,  nor  too  sombre  nor  too  gay, 
Fine  but  not  strong,  jolly  yet  not  too  dear, 
Pours  forth  his  generous  wine  as  England  pours  her  beer ! 


A  SOUVENIR  OF  ZURICH19 

FAIR  Zurich !  how  well  I  remember  the  hour, 
When  taking  my  coffee  and  rolls  in  the  Baur, 
There  beamed  on  my  vision  enraptured — my  eye! 
A  Lady  that  must  have  dropped  down  from  the  sky; 
Whose  voice,  sweeter  far  than  the  sweetest  of  chimes, 
(How  unlike  an  angel!)  first  asked  for  the  Times, 
Then  softly  petitioned  for  toast  and  green  tea — 
The  dear  English  creachaw — ah!  who  could  she  be? 

Just  out  of  the  window — the  heavens  were  clear — 
The  sunbeam  was  wooing  the  beautiful  mere, 
And  a  shimmer  crept  over  the  surface  to  prove 
How  fondly  the  water  requited  its  love; 
Away  in  the  distance,  the  Alps  in  the  glow 
Of  morning,  lay  shiningly  crested  with  snow; 
But  the  lake  how  insipid,  the  landscape  how  flat, 
Compared  with  the  object  which  vis-a-vis  sat ! 

When  this  charming  young  person  would  enter  the  room, 

It  seemed  like  a  ray  breaking  in  through  a  gloom; 

Such  sudden  delight  did  her  presence  impart, 

'Twas  like  hearing  some  exquisite  strain  of  Mozart; 

And  I  fancied  the  moment  her  figure  retired, 

That  the  ray  was  extinguished,  the  strain  had  expired: 

A  rainbow,  a  star,  a  fountain,  a  flow'r, 

She  sparkled,  and  blossomed,  and  shone  in  the  Baur! 

I  knew  not,  indeed,  if  this  delicate  girl 
Was  daughter  of  baronet,  viscount,  or  earl; 
Or  whether,  the  realms  of  Cockaigne  to  command, 
A  new  Aphrodite  she  rose  from  the  Strand; 
112 


A  SOUVENIR  OF  ZURICH  11 

But  nobility's  patent,  I  felt,  had  been  given 
To  such  a  fair  being  directly  from  heaven; 
For  round  her  unceasingly  glittered  a  glory,  a 
Light  that  did  never  belong  to  Victoria! 

But  the  pleasures  of  life,  as  the  poet  gives  warning, 
Tho'  as  bright  are  as  transient  as  tints  of  the  morning: 
And  so  cruel  fortune,  the  very  next  day, 
Made  this  beautiful  vision  get  in  the  coupe: 
A  Saxony  shawl  the  dear  vision  was  wrapt  in, 
And  by  her  there  sat  a  magnificent  captain, 
And  Hope,  on  the  wings  of  an  eagle,  took  flight 
As  the  diligence  bore  her  away  from  my  sight ! 

FA  moi — after  such  an  unfortunate  "go," 

I  found  la  belle  Zurich  exceedingly  slow, 

As  Christian,  most  likely,  found  Vanity  Fair, 

When  Faithful  was  carried  off  into  the  air: 

Though  a  light  o'er  the  village  her  beauty  had  thrown, 

"Like  the  fragrance  of  summer  when  summer  is  gone," 

And  still  shall  I  cherish,  while  memory  has  pow'r, 

That  sweet  souvenir  of  my  stay  at  the  Baur. 


THE  POSTILION  OF  LINZ 

WHAT  a  brave  looking  fellow  comes  walking  this  way — 

Who  is  he,  what  is  he?  can  any  one  say? 

With  his  coat  so  refulgent,  his  breeches  so  gay — 

As  fine  as  an  African  prince: 

See,  the  boys  all  retire  when  his  brightness  appears, 
(As  the  populace  do  in  the  streets  of  Algiers, 
Backing  out,  like  the  stars,  when  the  Dey  interferes). 

'Tis  the  splendid  Postilion  of  Linz ! 

With  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  his  whip  in  his  hand, 
And  the  air  of  a  gentleman  born  to  command 
All  the  horses  that  ever  were  seen  in  the  land — 

How  the  leaders,  beholding  him,  wince! — 
He  jumps  to  the  saddle,  "a  good  'un  to  go," 
Like  the  gallant  Postilion  of  Lonjumeau, 
Whom  we  saw  at  the  Opera  Comique,  you  know, 

Is  this  funny  Postilion  of  Linz. 

His  coat  is  of  scarlet — his  breeches  of  blue — 

Alas !  both  a  little  bit  faded  in  hue, 

And  a  hole  in  the  arm  where  the  elbow  peeps  through 

At  time's  awful  ravages  hints; 
But  philosophy  quietly  laughs  in  its  sleeve 
At  trifles  like  this,  and  you'd  better  believe 
A  philosopher  scorning  at  trifles  to  grieve 

Is  the  careless  Postilion  of  Linz. 

While  his  hat  and  his  boots  show  of  leather  a  sight — 
Like  the  "leathery  postilion"  that  "comes  from  the  height," 
Yet  no  traces  of  leather,  as  true  as  I  write, 
Does  the  old-fashioned  harness  evince — 
114 


THK    POSTILION    OF    I, IN/  115 

Tis  a  rope,  d'ye  sec,  that  attaches  the  train 
To  a(c)cord  with  tin-  roach,  which  \\oiild  certainly  seem 
Like  some  tawdry  but  broken  down  coach  in  a  dream, 
With  its  gaudy  Postilion  of  Linz. 

Yet  let  us  not  wickedly  seek  to  deride 

Our  pleasant  companion,  philosopher,  guide — 

Though  such  a  Postilion  I  never  espied 

Before  I  first  saw  him  or  since, 
Let  us  hope  that  his  beery  existence  may  tend, 
Like  his  song,  to  a  happy  and  peaceable  end, 
And  Time  all  the  ruts  in  Life's  highway  may  mend 

For  the  jolly  Postilion  of  Linz. 


LINDEN 

ON  Linden  when  the  sun  was  low — 
The  coach  was  very,  very  slow. 
The  lazy  horses  would  not  "go" 

To  Munich  with  the  passengers, 

But  Linden  yet  shall  see  a  sight, 
The  weary  pilgrim  to  delight, 
When  locomotives  shall  affright 
The  field  from  its  propriety. 

By  coachman's  trumpet  loudly  played 
The  horses  were  not  "fast  arrayed," 
And  not  a  single  charger  neighed 
To  join  our  little  company. 

But  far  less  speed  we  yet  shall  know 
Before  we  see  the  Iser's  flow, 
And  slower  yet  the  coach  shall  go 
To  Munich  with  the  passengers. 

The  team  was  changed  by  Linden's  mob, 
But  scarcely  had  they  done  the  job 
When  furious  John  and  fiery  Bob 
Cried  "go  ahead"  most  lustily. 

The  highway  lengthens.    On  we  crawl 
To  town  before  the  night  shall  fall — 
Take,  Munich !  take  the  party  all 

And  charge  with  all  thy  hostelry ! 
116 


LINDEN  117 

Ah !  when  at  last  we  there  shall  meet, 
A  jolly  dinner  we  shall  eat, 
And  every  bottle  'neath  our  feet 

Shall  tell  of  vanished  Burgundy ! 


A  PICTURE 

ACROSS  the  narrow  dusty  street 

I  see  at  early  dawn, 
A  little  girl  with  glancing  feet 

As  agile  as  the  fawn. 

An  hour  or  so  and  forth  she  goes, 
The  school  she  brightly  seeks, 

She  carries  in  her  hand  a  rose 
And  two  upon  her  cheeks.20 

The  sun  mounts  up  the  torrid  sky — 
The  bell  for  dinner  rings — 

My  little  friend,  with  laughing  eye, 
Comes  gaily  back  and  sings. 

The  week  wears  off  and  Saturday, 

A  welcome  day,  I  ween, 
Gives  time  for  girlish  romp  and  play; 

How  glad  my  pet  is  seen ! 

But  Sunday — in  what  satins  great 
Does  she  not  then  appear! 

King  Solomon  in  all  his  state 
Wore  no  such  pretty  gear. 

I  fling  her  every  day  a  kiss, 

And  one  she  flings  to  me; 
I  know  not  truly  when  it  is 

She  prettiest  may  be. 
118 


A  LEGEND  OF  BARBER-Y 

THERE  was  a  little  dandy  man  that  lived — no  matter  where — 
Who  thought  it  vastly  comme  il  faut  to  cultivate  his  hair, 
And  so  he  kept  in  constant  pay  a  hair  (and  whisker)  dresser— 
Who  called  himself  in  pompous  phrase  "tonsorial  professor"- 
Beneath  whose  kindly  curling- tongs  our  hero's  ringlets  twined, 
Not  Absalom's  so  beauteous  grew,  nor  hung  so  low  behind; 
And  soon  upon  his  upper  lip,  right  wrondrous  to  behold, 
There  sprouts  an  immense  moustache  with  sunny  hue  of  gold. 

Along  the  street  this  dandy  man  would  walk  at  set  of  sun, 
And  as  the  ladies  passed  him  by  he'd  throw  at  every  one 
Such  melting  looks  from  underneath  his  hyacinth ine  curls 
That  fixed  forever  was  the  fate  of  all  those  happy  girls; 
In  vain  they  tried  to  think  no  more  of  such  ambrosial  tresses. 
Night,  with  its  hours  of  dreamy  rest,  but  deepened  their 

distresses, 

For  in  their  visions  soft  and  light  Don  Whiskerandos  came, 
A  halo  round  his  shining  hair  and  his  moustache  in  flame! 

But  soon  our  little  dandy  man  became  involved  in  ruin 
By  spending  such  enormous  sums  in  real  grease  of  Bruin. 
The  famed  Macassar  oil  he  found  a  most  expensive  item. 
Alas  for  those  Hyperion  locks !  he  was  compelled  to  slight 

'em, 

Until  one  dark  and  fatal  day,  completely  out  of  cash, 
He  vowed  to  cut  the  ringlets  off  and  couper  the  moustache; 
And  having  at  the  barber's  hands  sustained  this  cruel  blow, 
That  little  balance  yet  unpaid,  he  bade  the  barber  go ! 

119 


120  A  LEGEND  OF  BARBER- Y 

But  when  our  little  dandy  man  arose  quite  late  next  day 
He  saw — O  sight  to  fill  the  soul  with  terror  and  dismay! — 
Upon  his  lip  moustache  more  fierce  than  ever  brigand  knew — 
Like  young  Augustus  Tomlinson's,  his  hair  more  fiercely 

grew; 

'Twos  not  confined  by  art  within  "its  proper  share  of  space." 
Nor  yet  about  the  forehead  thrown  with  Apollonian  grace, 
But  like  "the  fretful  porcupine"  quite  fearful  'twas  to  view, 

sir, 
As  with  its  horrid  snakes  appears  the  head  of  the  Medusa ! 

Outspake  that  little  dandy  man:   "Come  hither  once  again, 

My  trusty  knight  of  razor  strops;  your  work  was  done  in 
vain. 

Bring  forth  your  sharpest  scissors  now,  your  keenest  Shef 
field  blade, 

And  let  your  bravest  handicraft  be  quickly  here  displayed." 

Then  sat  he  down;  fast  flew  the  shears  his  tangled  curls 
among, 

Like  maize  before  the  scythe  fast  fell  his  beard  so  dense  and 
strong, 

The  floor  beneath  was  thickly  strewn  with  tufts  of  golden 
hair. 

A  gayer  and  a  cleaner  man  he  left  the  barber's  chair. 

Still  for  our  little  dandy  man  what  horrors  were  in  store ! 
Next  morn  the  crop  upon  his  head  was  thicker  than  before. 
The   huge   moustache   depended   low   upon   his   throbbing 

breast — 
He  seemed  like  one  by  "frightful  fiends"  and  demons  sore 

oppressed. 

Before  his  mirror  thus  he  stood,  the  scaredest  man  of  any. 
As,  when  the  marble  horseman  spoke,  stood  luckless  Don 

Giovanni. 


A  LEGEND  OF  BARBER  Y  121 

And  from   thai   hour  all  human  skill  <li<l   unavailing  prove 
That  superhuman  growth  of  hair  and  whiskers  to  remove. 

With  speed  our  little  dandy  man  "\veiil  flying  all  abroad"- 
By  steamer  sailed  to  Liverpool,  by  rail  to  Paris  rode — 
And  still  no  remedy  he  found,  in  England  or  in  France, 
The  fruitless  effort  only  served  his  sorrows  to  enhance. 
Day  after  day  his  health  declined,  he  grew  at  heart  more 

sick; 
His  "matted  and  combined  locks"  not  even  Hobbs  could 

pick. 
And,  more  than  that,  as  if  to  make  his  anguish  but  the 

deeper, 
That  beard  so  indestructible  defied  McConnick's  Reaper. 

At  length   our  little   dandy   man,   when   every  means   had 

failed— 

For  at  the  worst  experiments  his  spirit  never  quailed — 
Besought  a  learned  African  of  widest  fame,  who  said 
The  only  way  to  cure  the  ill  was — to  cut  off  the  head; 
And  so  our  hero  built  himself  a  private  guillotine, 
And  very  soon,  beneath  its  axe,  beheaded  he  was  seen. 
And  now  the  locks,  moustache  and  beard,  translated  to  the 

sky, 
Are  hung,  like  Berenice's  hair,  among  the  stars  on  high! 


IN  FORMA  PAUPERIS 

I  WALKED  out  of  Paris  at  evening — 

While  the  sun's  declining  rays 
Gilded  the  tops  of  the  crosses 

Of  beautiful  Pere  Lachaise. 

And  as  I  passed  through  the  portal 

'Mid  the  idle  Sunday  throng, 
A  little  procession  of  mourners 

Bore  a  rude  coffin  along. 

They  seemed  very  humble  people, 

And  no  one  turned  aside 
To  look  on  such  homely  sorrow, 

Or  ask  who  it  was  had  died. 

I  followed  the  bier  to  the  corner, 

Where  just  beneath  the  sod 
In  a  trench — not  a  grave — they  would  bury 

This  lowly  child  of  God. 

When  they  came  to  lower  the  coffin, 

A  priez  pour  elle  was  said — 
And  they  sprinkled  the  holy  water 

Over  the  dust  of  the  dead. 

But  a  holier  rain  descended 

From  the  depths  of  a  bursting  heart — 
The  tears  of  the  little  orphan 

Who  in  agony  stood  apart. 
122 


IN  FORMA  PAUPERIS 

Poor  girl!     We  can  offer  no  solace 
To  soothe  the  anguish  yon  feel 

But  strength  from  on  high  will  he  given 
As  here  yon  shall  oftentimes  kneel. 

No  shrine  of  the  sculptured   marlile 

Shall  rise  above  the  spot, 
No  flattering  false  inscription 

Shall  tell  what  thy  mother  was  not. 

But  here  the  lilies  and  pansies 

From  the  dewy  earth  shall  spring — 

Here  the  blossoming  Rose  of  Sharon 
Its  fragrance  around  shall  fling. 

And  the  eye  of  our  Heavenly  Father 
Shall  watch  o'er  the  grave  of  Ma  Mere, 

Since  it  looks  on  the  peer  and  the  peasant 
With  ever  an  equal  care. 

Such  was  the  train  of  my  musings — 
In  the  twilight's  purpling  haze — 

As  I  walked  back  to  Paris  that  evening 
From  beautiful  Pere  Lachaise. 


PATRIOTISM 21 

You  ask  a  Poem — it  must  be  confest 

That  this  is  no  extravagant  request, 

In  our  poetic  and  trochaic  time 

When  "mobs  of  gentlemen"  indulge  in  rhyme — 

And  every  critic  writing  to  review 

His  neighbor's  verses  is  a  poet  too — 

Has  climbed  himself  the  steep  Lycorean  mount, 

And  done  an  epic  on  his  own  account. 

A  Poem !  why  it  has  indeed  been  made, 

Of  latter  days,  the  merest  thing  of  trade. 

Yet  may  we  marvel  at  the  easy  air 

With  which  the  customers  their  wants  declare — 

Write  by  the  post  a  simple  business  note 

And  order  poems  as  they  would  a  coat — 

Say  to  the  Schneider  of  the  stately  song 

"On  Thursday  fortnight  send  the  thing  along." 

And,  they  might  add,  be  sure  that  it  display 

The  very  latest  fashion  of  the  day. 

For  there  are  reigning  modes  in  verse  to  choose — 

Each  has  its  hour  and  an  old-fashioned  muse 

Like  Goldsmith's,  seeking  simply  to  impart 

The  dear  pathetic  lessons  of  the  heart, 

Would  be  regarded,  in  the  present  rage 

For  "stunning"  novelties,  behind  the  age. 

In  poetry,  as  well  as  dress,  we  seek 

For  something,  as  the  French  would  say,  plus  chic. 

Receive  not,  gentle  hearer,  with  a  yawn 
This  long  sartorian  simile  I've  drawn, 
There's  much  resemblance,  if  you  did  but  know  it, 
124 


PATRIOTISM  125 

Between   Hie  crafts  of  tailor  and  of  pod. 
Both  cut  and  patch,  both  do  their  work  by  measure, 
And  both,  alas!  both  cabbage  at   their  pleasure! 
But  now  the  parallel  at.  last  to  drop 
And  once  for  all,  indeed,  to  "sink  the  shop," 
Just  let  me  ask  for  this  affair  of  mine 
To  judge  it  harshly  you  will  not  incline 
If  you  should  find  it  somewhat  badly  wrought, 
And  rather  threadbare  as  respects  the  thought, 
The  style  of  fustian,  and  the  scanty  wit 
Beyond  all  question  not  a  handsome  fit — 
If  of  the  puns  you  cannot  see  the  force 
Nor  follow  up  the  threads  of  the  discourse- 
In  short,  if  when  you've  read  the  poem  through, 
You  cannot  say  "Rent  tetiyit  acu" 
Pray  be  indulgent: — neither  snips  nor  bards 
Win  all  at  once  their  coveted  rewards, 
Stultz's  first  garment  did  not  gain  renown, 
Nor  Tennyson's  first  song  the  laureate's  crown: — 
Call  it  a  failure  freely,  if  you  will, 
But  have  compassion  for  the  poet  still, 
And  this  small  favor  Pity's  self  demands — 
Don't  throw  the  poem  back  upon  his  hands ! 

I  come,  in  sooth,  with  no  desire  to  claim 
Poetic  honors  or  the  poet's  name, 
But  with  affection,  warm  and  true,  for  all 
Who  join  in  this,  your  yearly  festival, 
My  little  wreath  of  wintry  flowers  I  bring; 
You'll  not  reject  the  humble  offering 
Which  makes  no  effort  at  distinguished  meed 
And  scarce  a  poem  can  be  called,  indeed, 
Unless,  with  Jourdain's  master,  we  suppose 
That  all  is  poetry  which  is  not  prose.22 


126  PATRIOTISM 

My  theme  is  Patriotism — lofty  theme! 

Long  held  by  moralists  in  high  esteem, 

And  much  discussed  by  those  who  writ  and  spoke 

In  former  ages — vide  Bolingbroke — 

But  voted  now  an  antiquated  thing 

By  such  as  haply  either  speak  or  sing. 

Perhaps  in  kindness  you  may  ask  me  why 

I  take  a  topic  so  extremely  dry, 

'Tis  not  that  I  can  hope  to  say  a  word 

That's  new  about  it — I'm  not  so  absurd: 

Or  make  the  glorious  light  of  genius  shine 

Through  every  page  and  brighten  every  line, 

And,  subtler  alchemy  than  that  of  old ! 

Transmute  my  leaden  fancies  into  gold, 

As  soft  October  sunsets,  slanting  o'er 

The  length'ning  levels  of  a  barren  moor, 

Convert  the  poorest  ferns  and  meanest  brooms 

Into  the  semblance  of  a  prince's  plumes; 

But  that  our  "primal  duties,"  though  aloft 

They  "shine  like  stars,"  are  yet  forgotten  oft, 

Because  on  lower  things  we  fix  the  eye 

And  will  not  look  into  the  spangled  sky. 

For  this,  I  would  some  homely  truths  recite, 

Not  the  less  excellent  that  they  are  trite, 

For  this  repeat  some  humdrum  ancient  saws 

Touching  "the  beauty  of  the  good  old  cause." 

And  what  is  Patriotism? — shall  we  go 

To  Samuel  Johnson,  first  of  all,  to  know; 

Since  now,  in  Public  Virtue's  sad  decay? 

Its  true  significance  has  passed  away. 

'Tis  "love  of  country,"  you  will  answer  pat, 

Admitted,  sir,  but  tell  me,  what  is  that? 

Time  was,  'tis  long  since,  when  to  love  the  earth 


PATRIOTISM  127 

With  generous  loyalty,  which  gave  one  birth, 

Involved  a  wide  affinity  of  love 

For  all  that  rose  Hie  natal  soil  above: 

Not  for  the  dear  old  mansion-house  alone. 

Where,  like  a  dream,  his  boyish  days  had  flown, 

The  breezy  hills,  the  tall  ancestral  trees, 

The  drowsy  garden  murmurous  with  the  bees, 

Nor  yet  the  path  where  oft  he  followed  after 

The  rippling  music  of  his  sweetheart's  laughter: 

But  for  the  school  where  erst  he  felt  the  rod— 

The  church  where  he  was  taught  to  worship  God: 

Then  did  he  treat  with  a  becoming  awe 

Religion's  temples  and  the  slirines  of  law— 

An  antique  honour  make  his  constant  guide, 

And  ever  cherish  with  an  honest  pride 

The  language,  rich  in  eloquence  and  song, 

Which  once  to  magic  Shakespeare  did  belong, 

Learned  in  perfection  only  as  it  trips 

In  airiest  movement  from  a  mother's  lips. 

Then  widening  out  his  sympathies  would  reach 

To  all  who  used  that  noble  form  of  speech, 

And  more  and  more  the  circle  still  expand 

Beyond  the  limits  of  his  native  land, 

Till  Patriotism  in  its  largest  sense, 

Embraced  mankind  in  its  benevolence. 

How  well  we  prospered  in  the  simple  ways 

Of  those  long-vanished,  scarce-remembered  days, 

Then  legislators  little  understood 

The  tricks  of  craft,  and  sought  the  public  good, 

Unread  in  Machiavel,  they  merely  aimed 

At  truth  and  justice  in  the  laws  they  framed: 

Each  recognized  his  duties  to  the  State 

And  strove,  as  best  he  might,  to  make  her  great, 

And  even  the  humblest  with  that  glow  was  fired 


128  PATRIOTISM 

Which  Burns  "in  glory  and  in  joy"  inspired, 

Who  only  wished  "some  usefu'  plan"  to  make 

Not  for  his  own,  but  for  old  Scotia's  sake. 

Ah  happy  age,  ah  long  exploded  creed ! 

What  novel  ethics  to  thy  sway  succeed ! 

How  changed  the  scene  in  legislative  halls 

Where  through  the  livelong  day  hoarse  folly  bawls, 

And  mad  ambition  or  the  love  of  pelf 

Bids  every  member  labour  for  himself. 

Our  Solons  now  too  often,  it  would  seem, 

Drink  deep,  but  not  of  the  Pierian  stream, 

And  nightly  gather  in  well-ordered  ranks 

To  study  Finance  in  unchartered  banks. 

Place  and  Preferment  still  make  slaves  of  some 

Who  war  with  Slavery,  while  others  come 

From  plotting  treason  round  a  Webster's  grave 

To  break  the  compact  they  are  sworn  to  save: 

Discord  in  Congress  rules  and  "wild  uproar" 

Throughout  the  session  daily  claims  the  floor, 

So  great  the  strife  that,  striking  to  relate, 

Pacific  railways  lead  to  fierce  debate, 

While  hungry  cormorants  flocking  from  the  hills 

Deplete  the  Treasury  with  their  Private  Bills: 

And  when  some  luckier  plunderer  than  the  rest 

Pilfers  his  millions  from  the  public  chest 

For  some  gigantic  scheme  of  wholesale  fraud 

There  are  not  wanting  hundreds  to  applaud; — 

The  service  calls  for  silver  service  fine — 

"Honors  are  easy"  in  the  silver  line — 

And  each  new  Judas  to  the  state  is  paid 

His  thirty  pieces  for  some  trust  betrayed. 

From  public  shall  we  turn  to  private  life? 
Alas !  what  social  maladies  are  rife, 


PATRIOTISM  129 

Where  Fashion,  decked  in  costliest  Brussels  laces, 

Ignores  our  homebred  modes  and  "native  graces," 

And,  most  unpatriotic  jade !  impairs 

Our  love  of  country  with  her  "foreign  airs:" 

Look  to  the  circles  of  our  largest  city 

Aping  the  swells  of  Europe,  more's  the  pity, 

And  showing  in  their  dinners,  routs  and  mobs, 

A  vulgar  aristocracy  of  snobs — 

In  vain  our  simple  fathers  swept  away 

All  vestige  of  the  ancient  feudal  sway, 

In  vain  they  flouted  all  the  useless  knowledge 

That  England  teaches  in  the  Herald's  College, 

When  each  new  humbug,  swelling  with  pretence, 

But  sadly  destitute  of  common  sense, 

Grown  rich  in  selling  buttons,  pills  or  flannel, 

Sports  flaring  red  upon  his  coach's  panel 

A  fine  escutcheon  stolen  out  of  Burke, 

O  stars  and  garters !  this  is  awful  work : 

Thus  they  obtain  their  coats-of-arms;    the  dance 

And  cooks  and  sauces  they  procure  from  France, 

And,  worse  than  all,  as  candor  must  declare, 

Import  their  morals  with  then*  bills  of  fare — 

So  character  is  served,  the  truth  to  tell, 

In  every  style  except  an  naturel, 

And  so  "our  best  society"  assumes 

This  shape — a.  filet  garnished  with  mushrooms. 

See  next  how  Fashion  dares  to  set  aside 

Our  language — source  of  patriotic  pride, 

And  makes  the  good  old  mother  tongue  appear 

Like  English  oak  o'erlaid  with  French  veneer. 

Our  pensive  maidens  rarely  now  employ 

A  Saxon  term  for  sorrow  or  for  joy: 

The  dear  one  little  versed  in  Mr.  Trench, 


130  PATRIOTISM 

Translates  her  tender  feelings  into  French; 

She's  enchanUe,  if  told  some  pleasant  news, 

And  desoUe,  if  troubled  with  the  blues, 

The  heavenly  smile  that  lights  her  beaming  face 

A  beau  sourire  becomes  in  Fashion's  phrase, 

And  Mariana  in  the  grange  would  say 

Not  "I'm  aweary,"  but  "I'm  ennuyfe." 

Yet  the  dear  creature  who  on  earth  can  blame 

When  tenderly  she  murmurs — "Que  je  t'aime?" 

That  soft  confession  on  the  poet's  ire 

Falls  like  wet  blankets  on  a  raging  fire, 

And,  as  Belinda's  face,  with  beauties  set, 

Belinda's  errors  caused  you  to  forget, 

Atones  in  whatsoever  language  given 

For  every  female  foible  under  heaven. 

Still  honour  be  to  woman !     She  has  shown 

The  loftiest  patriotism  earth  has  known — 

Not  on  the  hustings  claiming  equal  rights 

With  sterner  man,  ah  hatefullest  of  sights ! 

But  when  some  noble  purpose  fires  the  heart 

Or  bids  the  sympathetic  feelings  start; 

When  War  holds  carnival,  'mid  heaps  of  slain, 

With  Death  on  Glory's  drenched  and  crimsoned  plain, 

Or  Pestilence  in  darkness  walks  abroad 

And  renders  desolate  each  doomed  abode, 

See  with  what  joy  her  holy  presence  fills 

A  Norfolk's  streets  or  Balaklava's  hills ! 

Oh;  if  no  strain  of  minstrel  can  avail 

To  hymn  the  praise  of  Florence  Nightingale, 

My  rugged  verse  how  miserably  weak 

That  nobler  heroine's  renown  to  speak, 

Who  with  the  Fever  waged  th'  unequal  strife 

And  bore,  in  danger's  paths,  a  charmed  life! 


PATRIOTISM  131 

A  brighter  page  her  record  shall  display, 
And  every  tear  that  she  has  wiped  away 
Shall  crystallize  into  a  brilliant  gem 
To  glitter  in  her  heavenly  diadem !  M 

Yes,  honour  be  to  woman !     Hers  the  praise, 
When  strife  and  tumult  loud  their  voices  raise, 
That  piously  she  turns  her  moistened  eye 
To  where  our  greatest  chieftain's  ashes  lie 
Beneath  Mount  Vernon's  ever  sacred  sward, 
And  seeks  from  insult  and  decay  to  guard 
The  holiest  spot  the  sun  e'er  shone  upon — 
The  long-neglected  grave  of  WASHINGTON  ! 

This  is  True  Patriotism — this  the  spirit 

WTiich  all  earth's  real  Patriotic  inherit: 

And  so  the  laborer  whose  humble  toil 

Enriches  day  by  day  his  native  soil — 

The  merchant  prince,  whose  vision  still  extends 

Beyond  his  semi-annual  dividends — 

The  poet  seeking  fitly  to  rehearse 

His  country's  honour,  and  whose  lofty  verse 

Undying  lustre  on  that  country  sheds, 

And  classic  makes  the  ground  whereon  he  treads, — 

The  statesman  gazing  yet  with  doubts  and  fears 

Up  the  dim  vista  of  the  coming  years — 

The  man  of  science  looking  out  afar 

Into  the  welkin  for  an  unknown  star — 

These  are  our  patriots — and  no  work  they  wrought 

Has  ever  yet  been  perfected  for  naught: 

And  if  some  name  shall  flash  with  light  sublime 

Across  the  awful  gulf  of  future  time, 

'Twill  be  no  politician's — feeble  ray ! 


132  PATRIOTISM 

Quenched  always  with  his  own  brief,  noisy  day, 

But  that  of  Maury  whose  bright,  equal  fame 

Burns  in  Orion's  belt  with  steady  flame, 

And  everywhere  resounds  in  Ocean's  roar 

From  "Tampa's  desert  strand"  to  Iceland's  stormy  shore! 

What  though  the  humbler  patriot's  name  obscure 

No  fragrant  immortality  secure? 

He  lives  A  MAN,  and,  when  he  sinks  to  sleep, 

Freedom's  fair  Goddess  shall  forever  keep 

A  watch  and  ward  around  his  lonely  tomb 

Where  violets  with  recurring  Aprils  bloom ! 

For  there's  a  Goddess  whose  majestic  form 

Still  towers  above  the  wreck  of  every  storm, 

Columbia's  genius !  let  us  bend  the  knee, 

(Not  Freedom's  self  but  Freedom's  daughter  she) 24 

Whom  to  adore  is  not  idolatry. 

With  what  a  dignity  she  moves  along 

Among  the  nations,  fairest  of  the  throng, 

Not  Hera,  with  the  large  and  queenly  eyes, 

So  walked  the  golden  pavements  of  the  skies, 

Nor  silver-ankled  Thetis  e'er  displayed 

The  nameless  beauty  of  our  western  maid. 

But  oh  !  how  more  than  doubly  dear  she  seems 

Enthroned  and  sceptred,  in  the  poet's  dreams, 

REGINA  PACIS,  Empress  now  of  Peace, 

Whose  realm  shall  widen  as  the  years  increase, 

Her  lips  o'erflowing  with  immortal  love 

And  touched  with  light  descending  from  above, 

While  round  her  every  Muse  and  every  Grace 

Makes  gay  and  luminous  the  courtly  place: 

Or  as  in  reverie  alone  she  strays 

Adown  the  Dryads'  pleasant  moonlit  ways, 


PATRIOTISM  133 

To  twine  the  dewy  field  flow'rs,  fresh  and  wild, 
Into  a  garland  for  Urania's  child ! 

Not  so  when  throbs  the  war  drum  thro'  the  land, 

And  foreign  foes  set  foot  upon  the  strand. 

She  leaves  the  myrtle  shade  and  flowery  dell 

And  flies  the  proud  invader  to  repel — 

One  holy  vigil  first  beneath  the  light 

Of  friendly  stars  she  keeps  throughout  the  night, 

Then  strips  the  laurel  from  her  auburn  hair 

And  firmly  sets  the  gleaming  helmet  there ! 

Doffs  the  white  tunic  and  the  purple  vest 

To  bind  the  corslet  on  her  beauteous  breast: 

The  distaff  now  is  flung  aside,  and  mute 

Hangs  the  neglected,  once  rejoiceful  lute — 

Or  if  she  touches  it,  'tis  but  to  fling 

The  notes  of  battle  from  the  trembling  string. 

O  how  magnificently  she  appears, 

Thus  casting  from  her  all  a  woman's  fears, 

Resistless  valour  in  her  fiery  glance, 

Her  soft  white  fingers  closing  round  the  lance, 

And  scarlet  cheek,  thin  lip  and  lustrous  eye 

All  eloquently  speaking  Liberty! 

Were  this  Divinity,  so  passing  fair, 

No  mere  ideal  creature  of  the  air, 

Did  she  but  live  in  fleshly  guise  indeed, 

And  could  she  go,  the  country's  cause  to  plead, 

Within  yon  capitol,  what  noble  rage 

Would  all  her  glorious  faculties  engage, 

As  she  should  tell  her  more  than  mortal  griefs 

In  shame  before  the  country's  gathered  chiefs; 

With  what  grand  sorrow  would  she  there  lament 

Divided  counsels,  angry  discontent, 


134  PATRIOTISM 

And  what  majestic  energy  reveal 

As  thus  she  spoke  in  passionate  appeal — 

"O  by  the  mighty  shades  that  wander  still 

Where  Glory  consecrated  Bunker  Hill, 

By  those  who  sleep  'neath  Buena  Vista's  slopes, 

By  the  past's  greatness  and  the  future's  hopes — 

By  every  honoured,  unforgotten  name, 

Linked  with  your  dearest  Capitolian  fame — 

By  the  proud  memories  and  traditions  all 

That  live  forever  in  the  classic  hall 

Where  priceless  pearls  fell  fast  from  PINKNEY'S  tongue 

And  wit's  bright  diamonds  RANDOLPH  round  him  flung; 

Where  listening  Senates  owned  the  magic  sway 

And  thrilled  to  hear  the  clarion  voice  of  CLAY; 

WTiere  WEBSTER,  through  all  seasons,  grandly  strove 

'Gainst  Fraud  and  Faction  with  the  might  of  Jove; 

And  Reason  gave  you  her  divinest  boon 

In  the  pure  logic  of  the  great  CALHOUN; — 

By  this  august  Triumvirate  of  mind, 

By  all  the  lessons  they  have  left  behind, 

By  your  loved  hearthstones  and  your  altar  fires 

And  by  the  sacred  ashes  of  your  sires, 

Your  angry  strifes  and  fierce  dissensions  cease, 

And  bless  the  country  with  domestic  peace; 

GUARD  WELL  THE  UNION — Freedom's  last  defence 

And  only  hope  of  Freedom's  permanence — 

[MAINTAIN  THE  CONSTITUTION — let  it  stand 

And  shine  the  Pallas  of  this  Western  Land. 

So  shall  Columbia  act  her  destined  part 

As  patroness  of  Learning,  Labor,  Art, 

So  shall  she  usher  in  the  Golden  Age 

When  War  no  more  shall  stain  th'  historic  page, 

When  down  the  glacis  childish  feet  shall  stray 


PATRIOTISM  135 

And  little  urchins  on  the  bastions  play. 

When  ivy  o'er  each  battlement  shall  run 

And  cobwebs  line  the  chamber  of  the  gun,25 

While  Love's  warm  beams  shall  gild  the  placid  isles 

And  the  blue  seas  forever  sleep  in  smiles!" 

Thus  might  the  Goddess  speak — and  it  were  well 
If  upon  willing  ears  such  counsel  fell, 
Then  should  the  prophecy  that  Berkeley  cast 
Be  yet  fulfilled,  and  every  danger  past, 
Time's  noblest  offspring  truly  be  its  last! 

Whoe'er  has  stood  upon  the  Rigi's  height 
And  watched  the  sunset  fading  into  night, 
While  every  moment  some  new  star  was  born 
From  the  bald  Eigar  to  the  Wetterhorn, 
Has  seen  as  steadily  the  airy  tide 
Of  darkness  deepened  up  the  mountain  side 
The  glowing  summits,  slowly,  one  by  one, 
Lose  the  soft  crimson  splendour  of  the  sun, 
(Like  altar  lights  in  some  cathedral  dim 
Extinguished  singly  with  the  dying  hymn) 
Till  the  last  flush  would  lovingly  repose 
Upon  the  Jungfrau's  purple  waste  of  snows; 
Thus,  O  my  country!  when  primeval  gloom 
Shall  over  earth  its  ancient  reign  resume, 
When  Night  Eternal  shall  its  march  begin 
O'er  the  round  world  and  all  that  is  therein, 
As  dark  Oblivion's  rising  waves  absorb 
All  human  trophies,  thus  shall  Glory's  orb 
Thy  lone  sublimity  the  latest  see 
And  pour  its  parting  radiance  on  thee! 


VIRGINIA 26 

HAIL  !  blue-eyed  Sister  of  the  Sacred  Well, 

Whose  smile  illumines  every  bosky  dell, 

And  on  each  storied  lake  or  landscape  streams 

Like  moonlight  thro'  the  ivory  gate  of  dreams, — 

A  fond  admirer  here  invokes  your  aid, 

Altho'  a  poet  neither  "born"  nor  "made," 

He  wants,  what  worthier  bards  have  wanted  too, 

A  fine  exordium — and  he  turns  to  you ! 

If  his  unlicensed  brow  no  wreathes  of  bays, 

In  token  of  the  poet's  rank,  displays — 

If  his  prosaic  shoulders  do  not  bear 

The  singing-robe  your  favorites  always  wear — 

Yet  let  him  in  your  radiant  realm  remain 

A  little  season  and  inspire  his  strain; 

Then  should  he,  haply,  prove  unworthy  still, 

Some  modest  post,  Euterpe,  let  him  fill; 

He  asks  not  fame — contented  to  revise 

Apollo's  proof-sheets,  and  forego  the  prize. 

Meantime,  most  gracious  and  respected  Muse, 
What  theme  this  morning  shall  your  vot'ry  choose? 
I  catch  a  gush  of  melody,  and  clear 
This  tuneful  answer  breaks  upon  the  ear — 
"Set  restless  Fancy  free,  and  where  her  wing 
Conducts  the  eye,  of  that  bright  region  sing!" 
'Tis  done;    unloosed  the  jeses,  Fancy  sails 
Buoyant  aloft  upon  the  friendly  gales. 
Awhile  she  moves  in  arrowy  flight  along 
The  sunny  ether  of  the  land  of  Song, 
136 


VIRGINIA  137 

Ranges  from  coast  to  crag  nor  leaves  unseen 
The  purple  meadows  that  repose  between, 
Thru  fondly  bends,  with  poising  wing,  above 
The  dear  Virginia  of  our  hopes  and  love; 
As  the  swift  eagle,  circling  proudly  o'er 
Our  boundless  continent  from  shore  to  shore, 
Sees  rock  and  river,  prairie,  waste  and  wood, 
The  shining  city  and  the  solitude, 
The  snowy  sail  by  Huron's  breezes  fanned, 
And  the  light  ripple  on  the  bayou's  strand, 
And  stoops  at  last  to  fold  his  sombre  pinion 
On  some  blue  mountain  of  the  Old  Dominion ! 

Imperial  land !  could  ever  song  of  mine 

With  fairer  glories  make  thy  borders  shine — 

Could  my  rude  minstrelsy  with  charm  invest 

Each  spot  in  beauty  or  in  grandeur  drest — 

And  to  thy  Oread-haunted  valleys  give 

A  grace,  united  with  their  own  to  live — 

How  should  thy  rivers  to  the  ocean  glide, 

Like  Arno's  stream  or  Teviot's  "silver  tide," 

Reflecting  each  upon  its  mirror'd  face 

The  light  which  genius  lends  its  dwelling  place; 

How  should  Boccaccio's  mellow  atmosphere 

Hang  round  each  hill  and  kiss  each  dimpled  mere, 

How  should  thy  ramparts  echo  with  the  blast 

Of  lordly  music  flowing  out  the  past; 

From  the  cool  beach  where,  white  with  rage  and  frantic, 

Dash  the  wild  billows  of  the  chafed  Atlantic, 

Along  the  Ridge,  whose  azure  peaks  on  high 

Toss  their  soft  summits  'gainst  an  amber  sky, 

To  where  Ohio  sends,  through  darkling  woods, 

Its  tribute  to  the  mighty  Sire  of  Floods; 

Till  the  whole  space  thy  distant  lines  surround, 


138  VIRGINIA 

Our  goodly  heritage,  were  classic  ground, 
And  all  thy  pleasant  places,  noble  State, 
Thenceforth  forever  should  be  consecrate ! 

Virginia!  thou  hast  had  in  plenteous  store 

The  gifts  men  chiefly  honour  and  adore; 

Thy  story  burns  with  Valour's  dazzling  blaze 

Or  calmly  glows  with  Wisdom's  milder  rays, 

While  Eloquence,  that  melts  the  coldest  hearts, 

To  the  bright  record  all  its  fire  imparts: 

The  Warrior,  resting  on  his  stainless  sword, 

The  Orator,  whose  lips  persuasion  poured, 

The  Statesman,  he  who  wrought  from  chaos  warm 

The  elements  of  empire  into  form, 

The  jurist,  who  has  "shaped  the  State's  decrees," 

All,  like  the  figures  on  a  marble  frieze, 

Stand  grandly  forth  thy  greatness  to  proclaim 

Upon  the  tablets  of  thy  ancient  fame. 

One  stately  image  yet  is  wanting  there, 

The  Bard  with  fillets  twined  around  his  hair, 

No  favored  son,  created  for  all  time, 

For  thee  has  ever  "built  the  lofty  rhyme," 

And  joined  the  radiant,  rose-encircled  throng, 

Within  the  Temple  dedicate  to  Song: 

One  gifted  child  thou  hadst,  who  reached  in  vain, 

The  vast  propylon  of  the  gleaming  fane, 

'Twas  his  to  see  the  columns,  pure  and  white, 

Of  marble  and  of  ranged  chrysolite — 

The  lines  of  jasper  through  the  golden  gates — 

Alas!  no  more  was  suffered  by  the  Fates. 

Like  Baldur,  fairest  of  the  sons  of  morning, 

The  halls  of  Odin  lustrously  adorning, 

He  early  caught  the  pale  blue,  fearful  glance 

Of  shadowy  Hela's  awful  countenance. 


VIRGINIA  139 

Lamented  COOKE  !  if  all  that  love  could  lend 
To  the  cliaste  scholar  and  the  faithful  friend, 
If  all  the  spoiler  forced  us  to  resign 
In  the  calm  virtues  of  a  life  like  thine, 
Could  bid  him  turn  his  fatal  dart  aside 
From  our  young  Lycidas,  thou  hadst  not  died: 
Peace  to  the  Poet's  shade !     His  ashes  rest 
Near  the  sweet  spot  he  loved  on  earth  the  best, 
The  modest  daisies  from  the  surface  peeping, 
As  from  the  sod  where  Florence  Vane  lies  sleeping, 
While  his  own  river  murmurs,  as  it  flows, 
Perpetual  requiem  o'er  his  soft  repose. 

And  still  another  child  Virginia  nursed, 

Who  had  her  glories  loftily  rehearsed, 

But  that  his  genius  sought  "a  wild,  weird,  clime," 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  either  space  or  time, 

From  whose  dim  circuit,  with  uneartlily  swell, 

A  burst  of  lyric  rapture  often  fell, 

Which  swept  at  last  into  a  strain  as  dreary 

As  a  lost  spirit's  plaintive  Miserere; 

Unhappy  POE,  what  destiny  adverse 

Still  hung  around  thee  both  to  bless  and  curse! 

The  Fames'  gifts,  who  on  thy  birth  attended, 

Seemed  all  with  bitter  maledictions  blended; 

The  golden  crown  that  on  thy  brow  was  seen, 

Like  that  Medea  sent  to  Jason's  queen, 

In  cruel  splendor  shone  but  to  consume, 

And  decked  its  victim  proudly  for  the  tomb. 

Yet  shall  the  Poet  make  in  coming  time 
His  bright  avatar  in  our  sunny  clime; 
And  where  shall  inspiration  urge  the  soul 
Thro'  dithyrambic  liarmonies  to  roll 


140  VIRGINIA 

More  fittingly  than  in  this  calm  retreat 
Of  studious  Science — Learning's  earliest  seat? 
Where  does  Romance  more  lavishly  diffuse 
Upon  our  soil  its  ever  brilliant  hues 
Than  here,  where  Patriotism's  sacred  glow 
Kindled  the  wrath  that  laid  the  tyrant  low? 
I  walk  these  ancient  haunts  with  reverent  tread, 
And  seem  to  gaze  upon  the  mighty  dead: 
Imagination  calls  a  noble  train 
From  gloom  and  darkness  back  to  life  again, 
Whose  air  majestic  lends  a  statelier  grace, 
A  soft  enchantment  to  the  honoured  place. 
So  have  I  strolled  at  twilight's  rosy  hour 
Along  the  quiet  street,  where  Merton's  tower 
Lifts  its  rich  tracery  thro'  the  nodding  trees 
That  rise  o'er  Oxford's  halls  of  lettered  ease, 
And  felt  the  presence  of  the  tranquil  scene, 
Till  forms  long-buried  flitted  o'er  the  green; 
There  graceful  RALEIGH  moved,  immortal  name ! 
And  ADDISON  from  cloistered  musings  came; 
There  stalked  portentous  JOHNSON'S  burly  shade, 
And  pensive  COLLINS  down  the  vista  strayed; 
And  as  they  vanished  into  common  air, 
Their  clustering  memories,  ever  fresh  and  fair, 
Like  ivy  round  each  turret  seemed  to  twine 
And  every  chapter-house  became  a  shrine ! 

'Tis  thus  that  Art  is  long,  tho'  Time  is  fleeting— 
The  wise  old  maxim  that  we  keep  repeating — 
And  Wisdom,  with  endurance  not  of  earth, 
Outlives  for  aye  the  age  that  gave  it  birth; 
So  shall  our  Academus  planted  here 
Survive,  in  its  results,  from  year  to  year, 
Though  ruin  settles  on  its  antique  walls 


VIRGINIA  141 

And  from  our  lonely  courts  the  bittern  calls; 
So  shall  the  writer,  who  with  skill  portrays 
Virginia's  history  in  coining  days, 
Mark  how  it  enters  in  the  general  plan 
And  with  delighted  eye  its  progress  scan, 
A  thread  of  gold  still  running  brightly  through 
The  wondrous  tapestry  from  OKI  to  New. 

Thus  tracing  here  the  honors  interwove 

Of  State  and  College,  Capitol  and  Grove, 

I  leave  unsung  those  grand,  heroic  men 

Who  walked  the  heights,  so  dizzy  to  our  ken, 

Whore  first  our  starry  banner  was  unfurled, 

And  seem  yet  visible  to  half  the  world — 

And  follows  Memory,  as  she  fondly  turns 

To  yet  more  precious  if  less  stately  urns. 

But  twice  the  roses  of  the  Spring  have  blown, 

Since  rambling  far  in  other  lands,  alone, 

I  sought  the  hillock  where  the  cypress  bends 

O'er  Dew,  lamented  still  by  "troops  of  friends," 

The  sage,  whose  active  and  well-ordered  mind 

Books  had  enriched  and  social  life  refined, 

And  pondering  there  on  wisdom,  learning,  worth, 

Buried  with  him  beneath  that  foreign  earth, 

I  thought  of  TUCKER'S  high  and  varied  powers, 

His  fame,  of  all  indeed  that  made  him  ours; 

The  sweet  benignity,  the  careless  grace, 

With  earnest  thought  commingled  in  his  face: — 

You  watched  his  genius — saw  its  steady  shine, 

Its  full  meridian,  its  undimmed  decline; 

How  bright  the  noonday,  how  serene  and  clear 

The  solemn  evening  of  that  calm  career, 

And  mark  how  pure  a  lustre  lingers  yet 

Where  from  our  loving  gaze  that  full-orbed  genius  set ! 


142  VIRGINIA 

Where  shall  the  poet  find,  tho'  wandering  long 

A  spot  so  fragrant  of  unuttered  song 

As  this  old  city,  whose  colonial  glory 

Fades  into  Jamestown's  legendary  story? 

One  mouldering  tower,  o'ergrown  with  ivy,  shows 

Where  first  Virginia's  capital  arose, 

And  to  the  tourist's  vision  far  withdrawn 

Stands  like  a  sentry  at  the  gates  of  dawn. 

The  church  has  perished — faint  the  lines  and  dim 

Of  those  whose  voices  raised  the  choral  hymn. 

Go  read  the  record  on  the  mossy  stone, 

'Tis  brief  and  sad — oblivion  claims  its  own: 

Yet  Fancy,  musing  by  the  placid  wave, 

With  gentle  WIRT  above  some  nameless  grave, 

May  animate  the  sleeping  dust  once  more, 

And  all  the  past  in  vivid  tints  restore. 

Nor  should  the  picture  lack  for  livelier  strokes, 

(As  this  my  poem  sadly  wants  its  jokes,) 

When  came  the  epic  muse  to  later  times: 

(I  trust  the  change  will  brighten  up  my  rhymes.) 

Oh!  those  were  jolly,  good  old  days,  in  sooth, 

Consule  Planco — in  the  Raleigh's  youth, 

When  to  the  town  at  Christmas  would  repair 

The  gallant  lords  and  ladies  debonair; 

When  balls  and  races,  dinners,  routs,  the  play, 

In  quick  succession  make  the  season  gay; 

When  ennui  was  unknown — delightful  age! 

French  modes  and  phrases  were  not  then  the  rage; 

When  courtly  lovers  and  their  chosen  flames 

In  sweet  simplicity  took  pastoral  names; 

Thus  Damon  fair  Celinda's  graces  set 

To  smoothest  verses  in  the  old  Gazette, 

And  Strephon,  both  to  please  and  to  adorn  her, 

Courted  his  Chloe  in  the  "Poet's  Corner," 


VIRGINIA  143 

While  all — Celinda,  Damon,  Strephon,  Chloe — 
O  manly  forms,  O  bosoms  soft  and  snowy ! — 
Danced  stiff  old  minuets  throughout  the  night. 
Visions  of  satin,  spare  my  aching  sight! 
With  grandest  music  floating  round  the  whole — 
Ye  powdered  bigwigs,  crowd  not  on  my  soul ! 

Fiction  at  last  has  turned  its  gaze,  we  know, 

Upon  those  golden  days  of  long  ago; 

And  as,  obedient  to  the  prompter's  call, 

Time's  misty  curtain  rises  over  all, 

Before  us  now  the  quaint  comedians  pass — 

And  see !  the  modern  footlights  blaze  with  gas, 

In  robes  resplendent,  freshened  every  hue, 

The  faded  scarlet  and  the  watery  blue, 

The  beaux  and  belles  of  long  forgotten  years 

Have  "sly  flirtations"  'neath  the  chandeliers; 

Yet  in  the  brilliant  crowd  the  form  I  see 

With  greatest  pleasure  is  the  F.  F.  V. — 

Aristocratic  type  of  lofty  sires, 

Of  whom  'tis  said  "Virginia  never  tires," 

When  this  great  actor  comes  upon  the  stage, 

His  graceful  movements  all  my  thoughts  engage, 

As  in  the  Bowery  pit,  Moses  strains  his  eye 

When  Billy  Kirby  rushes  on  to  die! 

Time  changes  all.     When  in  the  morning  gray 
The  smoke  from  Yorktown  slowly  rolled  away, 
And  there  revealed  our  flag  flung  proudly  out 
O'er  slippery  mound  and  perilous  redoubt, 
Another  age  Virginia  ushered  in — 
End  pompous  Court  and  Commonwealth  begin ! 
Colonial  grandeur  soon  aside  was  laid 
With  sword  and  periwig  and  gold  brocade, 
And  of  the  prim  old  courtiers  soon  the  last 


Ml 


:-• 


- 


.         .:  :.- 
.        _         -:          - 


::-      . 
--         -        - 


ieof 


_         -- 

u 


.-.  -   "    - 


TO  PAUL  H.   HAYNE 

[IN   RECOGNITION   OF   A    VOLUME    OF    HIS   SONNETS) 

SWEET  sonnetteer  of  Southern  hills  and  streams, 
Petrarca  of  the  bright  Palmetto  shore, 
My  thanks !  that  from  thy  richly- varied  store 

Of  glorious  fancies  and  divinest  dreams 

A  sunshine,  warm  and  golden,  broadly  beams 
Upon  our  genial  land  in  brilliance  splendid ! 
Thine  is  the  poet's  glance;  thou  art  attended 

By  a  right  queenly  Muse,  whose  sandal  gleams 

In  every  walk  beneath  primeval  woods, 

Or  by  the  sea-side's  level  solitudes, 
Wherever  Nature  wakens  thee  to  love. 

Still  heed  thy  Muse,  interpret  her  replies 

Through  all  the  converse  whispered  as  ye  rove, 

And  men  shall  write  thee  with  the  great  and  wise. 


145 


THE  JAMESTOWN  CELEBRATION,  1857 27 

MORN  broke  over  Jamestown  Island, 
Slowly  purpling  all  the  landscape, 
Shelving  beach  and  crumbling  turret, 

Till  at  last  the  May-day  sun 
Streamed  across  the  spreading  wheat-fields 
In  a  flood  of  golden  splendor; 
And  upon  the  slumberous  silence 

Pealed  the  heavy  signal  gun. 

Five  times  fifty  years  had  glided 
Over  earthly  states  and  kingdoms 
Since  the  keels  of  Smith  and  Gosnold 

There  had  grated  on  the  sand; 
When  the  sons  of  Old  Virginia 
Came  with  pomp  and  martial  music 
To  commemorate  the  virtues 

Of  that  little  pilgrim  band. 

Out  upon  the  tawny  river — 

For  the  tide  that  day  had  borrowed, 

As  in  token  of  the  Red  man, 

Just  the  Indian's  copper  hue — 
Lay  a  fleet  of  yachts  and  steamers, 
Gay  with  flags  from  staff  and  topmast — 
Stars  and  stripes,  and  proud  Sic  Semper 

Shining  on  a  field  of  blue. 
146 


THE  JAMESTOWN   CELEBRATION,  1857  147 

S. inn  tin-  passengers  wrrr  landed, 

And  into  the  silent  graveyard 

Passed  the  throng  to  muse  and  ponder 

On  the  graves  amid  its  gloom; 
While  the  daily  press  reporter 
Copied  all  the  pompous  Latin 
Of  the  dim  and  quaint  inscriptions 

Carved  upon  each  shattered  tomb. 

Some  in  sacrilegious  fury 
Hammered  on  the  hallowed  marl>l<- 
To  obtain  a  precious  relic 

Of  the  spot  whereon  they  sat: 
Others,  for  a  fond  memento, 
Took  a  brick  from  off  the  tower; 
But  the  brick,  in  many  an  instance, 

Got  into  the  pilgrim's  hat! 

Then  the  throng  moved  slowly  onward 

To  the  place  of  celebration, 

Two  miles  distant  from  the  landing — 

Oh,  that  long  and  dusty  tramp ! 
Who  did  not,  with  Mariana, 
Cry,  oh  dear,  "I  am  a-weary!" 
Ere  he  saw  far-off  the  whitely 

Gleaming  canvass  of  the  camp? 

There  the  gallant  Richmond  soldiers, 
Marshalled  under  Colonel  Cary, 
Marched  about  to  lively  music 

Played  on  silver  instruments; 
All  around  was  their  encampment, 
Pitched  in  military  order, 
And  their  war-like  satisfaction 

Seemed  to  all  to  be  in  tents  [intense]. 


148  THE  JAMESTOWN  CELEBRATION,  1857 

Soon,  #s  grew  the  day  more  fervid, 
On  there  came  a  small  procession, 
Arm  in  arm,  some  five  and  twenty 

Gentlemen  in  suits  of  black; 
And  among  them  one  whose  boyhood 
Had  been  spent  beneath  Mount  Vernon's 
Sacred  roof,  a  reverend  seignior,28 

Walking  down  the  dusty  track. 

All  behind  them  poured  the  thousands 
Covered  with  the  wrhite  piepoudre, 
Looking  very  vexed  and  heated — 

Men  and  maidens,  youth  and  years; 
And  with  rare  "sonorous  metal 
Blowing  martial  sounds"  like  fury, 
Strong  in  numbers,  fuss  and  feathers, 

Came  the  Portsmouth  Volunteers ! 

Presently  drove  up  a  carriage 

Filled  with  grace  and  wit  and  beauty — 

Ladies  fair,  and  tall  civilian, 

This  the  orator,  they  said; 
And  indeed  'twas  Mr.  Tyler, 
Straight  and  dignified  and  stately, 
With  the  speech  in  his  portfolio, 

And  his  hat  upon  his  head. 

Then  they  gathered  round  the  platform 
All  the  soldiers  and  the  people 
While  the  band  played  Hail  Columbia 

With  a  patriotic  din ; 
And,  the  moment  this  was  ended, 
'Twas  announced  to  all  that  straightway, 
With  a  solemn  invocation, 

The  proceedings  would  begin. 


THE  JAMESTOWN   CELEBRATION,  1857  149 

Then  arose  from  earth  to  heaven 
Accents  of  sincere  thanksgiving 
And  an  humble  plea  for  mercy 

To  the  King  of  Kings  on  high — 
He  who  watched  above  our  fathers 
With  a  tender  loving  kindness 
In  those  fearful  forest  vigils 

Which  they  kept  in  days  gone  by. 

Now  a  hum  of  expectation 

Ran  throughout  the  large  assembly. 

As  before  them  Mr.  Tyler 

Forward  stepped  upon  the  stage; 
And  the  daily  press  reporters 
Spread  their  sheets  of  yellow  paper 
Ajid  caught  up  their  trusty  pencils 

In  a  stenographic  rage. 

Twas  a  very  long  oration,  read- 
Why  did  he  not  declaim  it? — 
And,  the  noontide  being  sultry, 

Its  effect  was  somewhat  tame,29 
But  at  times  the  voice,  unshaken, 
Rising  with  the  theme  majestic, 
Reached  the  melody  and  measure 

Of  his  senatorial  fame; 

And  when  all  the  fire  and  feeling 

Of  his  nature  energetic 

In  a  more  commanding  diction 

Found  at  last  a  fitting  vent 
Some  who  heard  him  were  reminded 
Of  the  brilliant  early  triumphs, 
At  the  bar  and  on  the  hustings, 

Of  the  "old  man  eloquent." 


150  THE  JAMESTOWN  CELEBRATION,  1857 

When  the  orator  concluded, 
There  was  very  loud  applauding 
And  another  burst  of  bugles 

From  the  soul-inspiring  band: 
Then  with  hair  in  wild  disorder 
And  his  eyes  fneath  gold-rimmed  glasses) 
In  poetic  frenzy  rolling, 

Our  young  poet  took  the  stand. 

As  the  tuneful  Chiabolos 
Sang  of  war  and  gentle  woman 
To  the  dusky  braves  around  him 

With  the  music  of  the  reed — 
As  the  pleasant  minnesinger 
Sang  of  love  and  knightly  daring 
In  the  long  and  pensive  twilight 

Of  the  Nibelungen  Lied — 

So  our  gifted  Jamestown  minstrel 
Sang  of  Smith  the  stalwart  Captain, 
Sang  the  strange  and  sad  adventures 

Of  the  beauteous  Indian  bride, 
Mingling  thus  the  feudal  story 
With  our  own  romantic  legends 
In  the  song  of  Pocahontas 

Early  lost  and  sanctified: 

Sang  our  much  loved  Old  Dominion, 
Sang  its  past  and  faded  glory, 
And  in  bard-like  strain  prophetic 

Cast  its  shining  horoscope, 
Till  the  listening  crowd  enraptured 
Burst  into  a  general  plaudit, 


THE  JAMESTOWN   CELEBRATION,  1857  151 

And  declared  our  Hampton  poet 
Had  not  proved  a  barren  hope* 

There  the  speaking  programme  ended, 
But  the  people,  much  excited, 
With  at  least  five  hundred  voices, 

Frantically  called  for  "Wise!" 
And  the  governor  came  forward 
'Mid  the  furious  acclamations, 
Thunder  seated  on  his  forehead. 

Lightning  gleaming  from  his  eyes. 

'Twas  a  little  speech  he  made  us, 
But  the  words  were  fitly  spoken, 
Golden  apples,  silver  pictures, 

Only  they  were  very  few; 
And  our  chieftain  left  the  platform, 
Went  among  his  standing  army 
Drawn  upon  the  field  of  clover, 

Waiting  for  the  grand  review. 

Arma — had  we  Virgil's  stylus 
We  might  say — virumque  cano, 
And  describe  the  sight  imposing 

There  upon  the  field  displayed; 
Fine  and  feathery  Portsmouth  soldiers, 
Petersburg  and  Norfolk  soldiers, 
Regiments  of  Richmond  soldiers, 

Very  showy  dress  parade. 

In  the  van  rides  Colonel  Gary, 
Sitting  straight  up  in  the  saddle 

*  The  poet  was  James  Barren  Hope. 


152  THE  JAMESTOWN  CELEBRATION,  1857 

With  the  Portsmouth  colonel  near  him, 
On  he  rides  amid  his  peers; 

And  although  the  road  is  dusty, 

His  no  steed  of  Conestoga 

But  one  fit  for  the  commander 
Of  the  Richmond  Volunteers. 

Well,  at  last  the  show  was  over, 
And  the  weary  crowd,  departing, 
To  the  head  of  Jamestown  Island 

Took  their  melancholy  way; 
There  was  neither  dance  nor  dinner, 
And  in  hunger  lords  and  ladies 
Sullenly  rejoined  the  steamers, 

Distant  steamers,  toilsome  day. 

But  when  night  upon  the  Island 
Settled  down  and  all  the  camp-fires 
Redly  gleamed  out  on  the  darkness 

Through  the  tall  and  spectral  trees, 
Rockets  rose  from  shore  and  river, 
Bursting  into  starry  brightness, 
Flags  of  flame  which,  streaming  o'er  us, 

"Braved  the  battle  and  the  Breeze."  3( 

Such  the  Jamestown  celebration, 

As  perhaps  we  yet  may  see  it 

In  Porte  Crayon's  pleasant  sketches 

Done  for  Harper's  Magazine: 
'Twas  a  highly  patriotic, 
Picturesque,  auspicious,  happy, 
Hot  and  dusty  celebration 

As  was  ever  sketched  or  seen. 


LOU 

THERE'S  a  little  joyous-hearted  girl,  to  see  whom  is  a  bless 
ing, 

Tliat  lives  a  square  or  two  from  us,  upon  our  quiet  street; 
Her  merry  face  is  bright  beyond  the  painter's  sweet  ex 
pressing, 

And  trippingly  as  dactyls  move  her  tiny,  twinkling  feet. 
She  seems  as  if  she  never  yet  had  known  a  childish  care, 
And  the  soft  October  sunshine  is  tangled  in  her  hair. 

Above  the  din  of  noisy  girls  I  catch  her  radiant  laughter, 

Beneath  the  dusky  lindens  on  the  long,  long  summer  days, 
And  see  her  foremost  in  the  romp,  with  dozens  running 

after— 
The  first  beam  dancing  through  a  cloud  chased  by  a  troop 

of  rays. 

'Tis  but  a  poor  similitude — the  bravest  would  not  do — 
For  music,   perfume,   starlight,  all  seem  commonplace  for 
Lou! 

At  morning,  when,  with  many  books,  I  meet  her  on  the  way 

to 
Her  school,  I  often  wonder  what  they  teach  my  little 

friend; 

The  lessons  she  herself  might  teach  are  wiser  far  than  Plato — 
Simplicity  and  truth,  the  means  to  compass  wisest  ends; 
But  much  I  wish  the  privilege  as  tutor  I  might  claim 
To  ask  her  softly  aimez-vous?  and  hear  her  answer  faime. 

153 


154  LOU 

And  sometimes  when  at  church  I  see  her  happy,  trustful 

features, 
A  tender,  wayward  thought  will  come  between  me  and 

the  psalm, 

That  like  to  such  a  little  child  must  all  we  erring  creatures 
In  simple-minded  faith  appear,  with  passions  hushed  and 

calm, 
Before  the  Eternal  Truth  shall  break   upon   our  sight  so 

dim — 
For  such  an  one  the  Saviour  saw,  and  bade  come  unto  Him ! 


WASHINGTON31 

Nun  im-isa  notis  marmora  publicis, 
Per  quae  spiritus  et  vita  red  it  bonis 
Post  mortem  ducibus;     .... 
.     .     .     .     clarius  indicant 
Laudes,  quam  .  .  .  Pierides;  neque 
Si  chartae  si  leant  quod  bene  feceris, 
Mercedem  tuleris. 

— HORATIUS,  Lib.  IV,  carmen  8. 


VIRGINIANS!  here,  with  cannon's  deafening  roar, 

And  joyous  throb  of  drum, 
From  mountain  gorge  and  from  Atlantic  shore, 

This  hallowed  day  we  come. 

'Tis  one  of  Freedom's  Sabbaths;  and  we  give 

The  time  to  Freedom's  praise, 
As  here,  in  bronze  that  almost  seems  to  live, 

Our  hero's  form  we  raise. 

O !  it  is  well  that  glorious  form  should  grace 

Our  own  Capitoline — 
Henceforth  to  all  a  consecrated  place 

That  holds  a  sacred  shrine. 

The  pomp  of  pennons,  scarfs  and  tossing  plumes 

Is  fitly  here  displayed, 
Scattering  the  tints  of  summer's  richest  blooms 

Upon  the  bright  parade. 
155 


156  WASHINGTON 

And  worthy  is  it  that  with  noble  speech 

Which  glows  with  vital  pow'r, 
The  laurel-crowned  orator  should  teach 

The  grandeur  of  the  hour. 

While  yet  in  reverent  mood  the  poet  brings, 

Amid  the  brilliant  throng, 
What  he  would  never  give  to  flatter  Kings, 

His  modest  meed  of  song. 

Not  queenly  Athens,  from  the  breezy  height 

Where  ivory  Pallas  stood, 
As  flowed  along  her  streets  in  vestures  white 

The  choral  multitude — 

Not  regal  Rome,  when  wide  her  bugles  rolPd 

From  Tagus  to  Cathay, 
As  the  long  triumph  rich  with  Orient  gold 

Went  up  the  Sacred  Way— 

Not  proud  basilica  or  minster  dim, 
Filled  with  War's  glittering  files, 

As  battle  fugue  or  Coronation  Hymn 
Swept  through  the  bannered  aisles — 

Saw  pageant,  solemn,  grand  or  gay  to  view, 

In  moral  so  sublime, 
As  this  which  seeks  to  crown  with  homage  due 

The  foremost  man  of  Time! 

Then  let  the  gun  from  out  its  peaceful  smoke 

Its  thunder  speak  aloud, 
As  when  the  rainbow  of  our  flag  first  broke 

Through  battle's  rifted  cloud. 


WASHINGTON  157 

IVal,  trumpets,  poal !  your  strain  triumphant  lend 

To  stir  the  wintry  air, 
And  upward  to  the  throne  of  God  ascend 

The  frankincense  of  prayer — 

Not  ours  but  His  the  glory  ever  !•<•. 

While  yet  the  ages  run, 
Who,  that  His  favored  people  might  be  free, 

Gave  earth  a  Washington ! 

II 

Yes!  the  sculptor's  work  is  finished,  and  to  life  the  metal 

starts, 
Token  of  a  people's  love  and  crowning  tribute  of  the  Arts. 

True,  no  need  of  molten  image  or  of  column  skyward  reared 
Had  this  Christian  sage  and  soldier,  to  the  world's  great 
heart  endeared; 

Yet  Virginia's  deep  affection  she  would  to  the  world  pro 
claim 
In  this  bronze  and  granite  only  less  enduring  than  his  fame: 

And  the  Sisters — they  who  wander  by  the  old  melodious 

River- 
Honour  still  the  few  whose  virtues  live  forever  and  forever. 

Long  in  vain  the  Arts  debated  'neath  the  amaranthine  shade, 
How  the  fit  apotheosis  of  our  hero  should  be  made: 

When  a  Muse  said  "O  my  sisters,  there  are  two  of  mortal 

birth, 
Who  are  worthy  to  interpret  all  his  greatness  unto  earth; 


158  WASHINGTON 

"Regally  have  we  endowed  them  with  the  *  faculty  divine,' 
Let  us  for  this  loftier  service  richer  gifts  to  them  assign." 

Then  came  Eloquence,  attended  by  the  stately  rhythmic 

choir, 
And  from  her  unfailing  altar  touched  an  Everett's  lips  with 

fire, 

While  the  voiceless  Muse  of  Sculpture,  white  and  shining, 

raised  her  wand, 
And   a   yet   more   wondrous   cunning   straightway   thrilled 

through  Crawford's  hand, 

And  he  let  his  nymphs  and  Hebes  in  their  sleep  of  snowy 

stone, 
With  the  grand  old  dreamy  beauty  of  the  Greek  around  them 

thrown, 

Catching  from  his  theme  majestic,  in  his  thought's  enkindled 

glow, 
Something  of  the  forceful  purpose  marble-wrought  of  An- 

gelo. 

In  his  quiet  Roman  workshop  months  the  sculptor  toiled: 

at  length 
All  completed  rose  the  model  in  its  glory  and  its  strength. 

Then  beyond  the  Alps  they  bore  it,  statue  of  the  deathless 

name, 
To  the  distant  German  city  there  to  be  baptised  in  flame. 

'Twas  a  glorious  thing  to  witness,  as  the  swarthy  artisan 
Set   the   fiery   torrent   free   and   seething  in   the  mould   it 
ran: 


WASHINGTON  159 

But  great  joy  there  was  in  Munich,  when  the  metal,  furnace- 
tried, 
Came  to  sight  a  radiant  image,  perfect  then  and  purified. 

Thus  through  trials  yet  intenser  and  a  more  refining  blaze 
Passed  our  hero,  pure  and  scatheless,  in  the  Revolution's 
days. 

Horse  and  rider,  decked  with  garlands,  now  in  lengthened 

jubilee 
Journey  tlirough  the  pleasant  Rhineland  onward  to  the  Zuy- 

der  Zee. 

Under  quaint  and  leaning  gables  stops  at  last  the  ponderous 

wain, 
Where  the  dykes  of  Holland's   seaport  backward  hurl  the 

angry  main. 

Everywhere  the  youths  and  maidens  thronged  to  see  it  mov 
ing  by, 

Grey-haired  sires  and  matrons  cheered  it,  on  its  joyous 
way — and  why? 

'Twas  that  men  of  every  nation,  in  our  Washington's  career, 
See  their  own  commanding  hero  yet  more  gloriously  appear. 

William's  calm   and   silent  courage,   TelPs   imperious   hate 

of  wrong 
Dwelt  within  and  fired  his  nature  large  and  resolute  and 

strong. 

Yes,  and  there  Rienzi's  passion  grander-statured  owned  con 
trol 
Unto  Hampden's  lofty  virtues  regnant  firmly  in  his  soul. 


160  WASHINGTON 

Therefore    'twas,    the   fair-haired    children   of   the    ancient 

Father  Rhine 
Gratefully  around  his  statue  freshest  roses  would  entwine: 

Therefore  'twas  the  honest  Flemings  deemed  the  bark  that 

bore  it  blest, 
Fading  o'er  the  watery  azure,  sailing  down  the  crimson  west. 

Now  for  us  who  claim  to  love  him  with  a  fonder,  dearer  love, 
Upon  whom  he  yet  may  scatter  benedictions  from  above; 

Us,   who   tread   the   soil   his   footsteps   made   forever   holy 

ground, 
Where  his  sacred  ashes  slumber,  where  his  fame  sheds  light 

around; 

'Tis  to  deck  this  noble  figure,  raised  in  airy  grace  on  high, 
With  its  final  wreaths  of  homage,  fragrant  as  his  memory. 

Ah !  the  hand  is  cold  that  wrought  it — fondly  would  the  poet 

crave 
Just  to  place  a  simple  flow'ret  on  the  sculptor's  early  grave. 

Say  not  the  sombre  angel  stilled  in  death  his  manly  heart, 
All  too  soon  for  life's  ambition,  all  too  soon  for  Christian 
Art. 

Well  he  laboured  whatsoever  here  his  hands  had  found  to  do, 
And  submissive  to  his  Master  passed  away  from  mortal 
view. 

Thus  amid  the  wailing  music  of  the  Requiem,  mournful, 

grand, 
As  with  joyous  hallelujahs  sought  Mozart  the  Spirit  Land ; — 


WASHINGTON  161 

Thus  from  faint  celestial  glimpses  and  from  well  assured  re 
nown 

Called  to  gaze  on  fairer  visions,  Raphael  laid  his  pencil 
down. 

Though  for  him  the  tearful  Muses  sorrow  in  their  moonlit 

home — 
Though  a  tranquil  light  has  faded  from  the  deep  blue  sky 

of  Rome 

Gone  before  us  he  has  given  unto  earth  immortal  grace, 
\nd    in   Art's   bright    hemieycle    found    among  his  peers  a 
place; 

Gladly  they  accord  our  brother  lasting,  monumental  fame, 
Blended    in    the    bronze    above    us    with    earth's    proudest, 
grandest  name. 

Ill 

O !  'tis  a  noble  sight, 

The  fiery  steed,  just  checked,  that  paws  the  ground, 
As  if  impatient  for  the  clarion's  sound 

That  calls  to  deadly  fight. 

The  \sar-horse  says  ha!  ha! 
And  snuffs,  in  very  insulener  of  pride 
With  high  areh'd  neck  and  furious  nostril  wide, 

The  battle  from  afar. 


But  sits  our  matcliless  one 
Serene,  as  erst  in  war's  in  tensest  wrath, 
And  points  forever  to  the  golden  path 

Of  empire  and  the  sun. 


162  WASHINGTON 

The  high  and  holy  calm 

That  crowns  his  brow,  there  cast  its  aureole, 
When  dangers  dire  be  met  with  equal  soul 

Or  bore  the  victor's  palm. 

So  'mid  the  whirling  snow 
Where  freezing  Delaware  rolled  darkly  by, 
Beyond  the  shore  he  turned  his  eagle  eye 

Where  duty  bade  him  go. 

So  after  sad  defeat, 

From  hushed  Long  Island's  camp  he  sent  his  hosts 
At  midnight  o'er  the  tide  like  sheeted  ghosts, 

And  glorified  retreat. 

And  such  his  tranquil  mien, 
When  over  drenched  redoubt  and  shattered  wall 
He  saw  the  Briton's  lion  banner  fall, 

At  Yorktown's  final  scene. 

O !  for  that  self-command, 
That  sweet  serenity,  that  grace  refined, 
"  That  wisdom  throned  within  a  lofty  mind, 
To  save  the  freeman's  land. 

Here,  venerated  shade! 
As  proudly  we  thy  mighty  deeds  review 
And  what,  as  well,  thou  didst  forbear  to  do — 

No  trust  by  thee  betrayed — 

Impart  thy  love  of  truth — 
Teach  us  the  good  and  ill  alike  to  bear, 
So  shall  the  State  with  Freedom's  Goddess  share 

Her  bright  perpetual  youth. 


\VASIIIN(,T()N  163 


IV 

And  now,  my  brothers,  what  to  us  remains 
Of  solemn  duty  \\hicli  the  day  ordains, 
While  yet  Virginia's  gifted  sons  prolong, 
In  thoughtful  eloquence  and  lyric  song, 
The  fond  ascriptions  of  a  nation's  praise. 
Which  my  too  feeble  voice  attempts  to  raise? 
'Tis  that  we  here  in  gratitude  renew 
The  patriot-vows  to  country  ever  due, 
And  on  this  holy  altar  firmly  swear 
The  blessed  compact  never  to  impair 
Which  the  Republic's  fathers  gave,  to  prove 
The  boundless  wealth  of  their  undying  love. 
As  when  a  planet,  first  in  motion  wheeled, 
In  placid  circles  sweeps  creation's  field, 
Nor  tumult  causes  there,  nor  haply  fears 
The  angry  jarring  of  its  sister  spheres, 
But  moves  forever  on  its  destined  way, 
In  liquid  music  with  benignant  ray; 
So  may  each  added  star,  that  makes  in  turn 
Our  constellated  glories  brighter  burn, 
Drop  silently  into  its  ordered  place 
To  run  its  radiant  and  unpausing  race; 
Blessing  and  blest,  'gainst  every  shock  secure, 
Through  time's  revolving  cycles  to  endure, 
Till,  like  Orion's  belt,  our  ensign's  bars 
Shall  blaze  with  countless  multitudes  of  stars, 
Their  mingled  light  into  one  halo  thrown, 
But  each  a  planet  da/./lin^  when  alone! 

But  Time,  alas !  still  crumbles  into  dust 
The  brazen  column  and  the  marble  bust; 


164  WASHINGTON 

Dashes  the  image  from  its  pedestal 

And  weaves  for  mighty  States  the  funeral  pall; 

Thus  the  proud  statue,  which  we  rear  in  bronze 

And  wreathe  today  with  Freedom's  gonfalons, 

May  moulder  into  ruin,  when  the  State 

Which  gave  it  birth  is  waste  and  desolate. 

But  truth  uninjured  shall  forever  stand, 

And  deathless  mind  can  mock  the  spoiler's  hand: 

And  so,  wherever  Law  shall  build  its  fane 

And  Learning  push  its  humanizing  reign — 

Wherever  o'er  the  future's  misty  seas 

Men  shall  revere  the  name  of  Socrates, 

And  generous  youth  with  rapture  dwell  upon 

The  shining  page  which  tells  of  Marathon — 

Into  what  climes  remote  the  sacred  ark 

Shall  yet  be  safely  borne  in  Freedom's  bark 

Freighted  with  legacies  of  worth  unpriced, 

The  truths  of  Luther  and  the  creed  of  Christ, — 

There  Washington  shall  live,  and  there,  enshrined 

Within  the  vast  heart- temple  of  mankind, 

Our  honoured  Commonwealth  shall  still  receive 

The  purest  worship  grateful  love  can  give — 

Her  praise  according  millions  shall  proclaim 

And  earth's  remotest  age  shall  bless  Virginia's  name ! 


SONG, 

TO   ONE   WHO    WILL    UNDERSTAND   IT 

COME,  lady,  step  into  the  boat, 

Our  pennon  flutters  free. 
And  with  the  sunset  we  shall  float 

Upon  the  swelling  sea. 

Before  the  light  of  day  grows  dim 
Our  love-vows  shall  be  told, 

Where  yon  small  speck  on  ocean's  rim 
Peeps  o'er  the  crests  of  gold. 

Thy  sweet  discourse  my  ear  shall  fill, 
Thy  voice  my  soul  subdue, 

As,  like  the  imprisoned  bird,  at  will 
We  shoot  across  the  blue. 

And  when  upon  that  distant  strand 

Our  loves  shall  be  confest 
Twill  be  to  me  the  "Happy  Land," 

"The   Island  ,,f  the   Blest." 


165 


THE  OLD  DOMINION  JULEP  BOWL32 

[TO  o.  P.  R.  JAMES] 

GOODBYE  !  they  say  the  time  is  up — 

The  "solitary  horseman"  leaves  us. 
We'd  like  to  take  a  "stirrup  cup," 

Though  much  indeed  the  parting  grieves  us; 
We'd  like  to  hear  the  glasses  clink 

Around  a  board  where  none  were  tipsy 
And  with  a  hearty  greeting  drink 

This  toast — The  Author  of  the  Gipsy ! 

The  maidens  fair  of  many  a  clime 

Have  blubbered  o'er  his  tearful  pages, 
The  Ariosto  of  his  time, 

Romancist  of  the  Middle  Ages: 
In  fiction's  realm  a  shining  star, 

(We  own  ourselves  his  grateful  debtors) 
Who  would  not  call  our  G.  P.  R.— 

"H.  B.  M.  C."— a  Man  of  Letters? 

But  not  with  us  his  pen  avails 

To  win  our  hearts — this  English  scion, 
Though  there  are  not  so  many  tales 

To  every  roaring  British  Lion — 
For  he  has  yet  a  prouder  claim 

To  praise  than  dukes  and  lords  inherit, 
Or  wealth  can  give  or  lettered  fame — 

His  honest  heart  and  modest  merit. 
166 


THE  OLD  DOMINION  JULEP  BOWL  107 

An  Englishman  whose  sense  of  right 

Comes  down  from  glorious  Magna  Charta, 
He  loves,  and  loves  with  all  his  might, 

His  home,  his  Queen,  Pale  Ale,  the  Garter: 
This  last  embraces  much,  'tis  best 

To  comprehend  just  what  is  stated — 
For  Honi  Soit — you  know  the  rest 

And  need  not  have  the  French  translated. 

O  empty  bauble  of  renown, 

So  quickly  lost  and  won  so  dearly, 
Our  Consul  wears  the  Muses'  crown, 

We  love  him  for  his  virtues  merely: 
A  Prince,  he's  ours  as  much  as  Fame's, 

And  reigns  in  friendship  kindly  o'er  us, 
Then  call  him  George  Prince  Regent  James, 

And  let  his  country  swell  the  chorus. 

His  country!  we  would  gladly  pledge 

Its  living  greatness  and  its  glory — 
In  Peace  admired,  and  "on  the  edge 

Of  battle"  terrible  in  story: 
A  little  isle,  its  cliffs  it  rears 

'Gainst  winds  and  waves  in  wrath  united, 
And  nobly  for  a  thousand  years 

Has  kept  the  fire  of  freedom  lighted. 

A  glowing  spark  in  time  there  came, 

Like  sunrise  o'er  the  angry  water, 
And  here  is  fed,  an  altar  flame, 

By  Britain's  democratic  daughter — 
From  land  to  land  a  kindred  fire 

Beneath  the  billow  now  is  burning, 
O  may  it  thrill  the  magic  wire 

With  only  love,  and  love  returning! 


168  THE  OLD  DOMINION  JULEP  BOWL 

But  since  we  cannot  meet  again 

Where  wine  and  wit  are  freely  flowing, 
Old  friend !  this  measure  take  and  drain 

A  brimming  health  to  us  in  going: 
And  far  beneath  Italia's  sky, 

Where  sunsets  glow  with  hues  prismatic, 
Bring  out  the  bowl33  when  you  are  dry, 

And  pledge  us  by  the  Adriatic ! 

Richmond,  Va.,  September  20,  1858. 


"MAY-DAY" 

WHAT  have  we  here?     A  pretty  scene  — 
Where,  sporting  on  a  sylvan  ^reen, 
Before  a  flowery-kirtled  queen, 

In  Youth's  delicious  hey-day, 
The  dear  old  souls  we  love  so  well 
In  Watteau*s  paintings  —  beau  and  belle  — 
Have  met  in  happy  groups  to  cel 

ebrate  their  ancient  May-day. 

Just  opposite  the  stately  throne 
(The  queen,  observe,  sits  not  alone, 
The  king  is  there  to  claim  his  own) 

We  see  the  youthful  dancers; 
There,  right  and  left,  around  the  pole, 
They  move  in  music's  soft  control, 
And  mark  the  figure,  bless  my  soul  ! 

It   is  —  it  is  "the 


And  yonder  near  the  beechen  grove, 
Whose  twilight  depths  invite  to  rove, 
The  very  place  to  whisper  love, 

So  dark  and  cool  the  shade  is  — 
Are  dames  in  hoops;  although  'tis  truo 
Their  skirts  are  not  so  amplitu 
dinous  and  wonderful  to  view, 

As  those  of  modern  Iadi«->. 


170  "MAY-DAY" 

See  close  at  hand  a  cavalier. 

My  eye !  but  how  uncommon  queer 

Does  Count  Fitzbattleaxe  appear 

With  tights  and  ruff  and  rapier! 
Thus,  moving  through  the  brilliant  hall, 
Displaying  lower  limbs  as  small 
At  Mrs.  Gwin's  late  fancy  ball 

You  might  have  seen  Lord  Napier. 

The  gallant  to  his  charmer  bows — 
'Tis  clear  she  is  not  yet  his  spouse — 
You  almost  seem  to  hear  his  vows, 

As  kindly  she  receives  him; 
He  swears  that  she  is  brighter  far 
Than  regal  night's  most  radiant  star, 
And  she,  the  beauteous  Lady  Char 
lotte,  little  fool !  believes  him. 

And  as  he  bows  we  know  that  soon, 

When  May  has  lost  itself  in  June, 

They'll  walk  to  church  some  pleasant  noon, 

(There  soars  the  lofty  steeple)  ! — 
And,  at  the  lucky  Count's  commands, 
The  good  old  vicar  in  his  bands 
Shall  join  in  one  their  willing  hands, 

And  make  two  happy  people. 

Thus  runs  for  aye  the  world  away, 
And  though  "it  is  not  always  May," 
Yet  all  abloom  once  more  today 

Returns  the  genial  season; 
And  as  the  yearly  roses  blow 
Fond  lovers'  honeyed  words  still  flow, 
And  maidens  wed,  as  long  ago, 

Without  or  rhyme  or  reason. 


"MAY-DAY"  171 

There's  nothing  either  new  or  strange 

In  nature's  still  recurring  range. 

Men  are  the  same — they  simply  change 

Or  modify  the  fashion; 
But  spring,  in  robe  of  brilliant  dyes, 
Shall  come  while  time  yet  onward  flies, 
And  ever  woman's  dove-like  eyes 

Shall  light  the  tender  passion. 


ROBERT  BURNS34 

[JANUARY  25,  1359] 

ONE  hundred  years  ago  to-day. 

Poor  Burns  was  born, — the  master 
Who  lived  and  wrote  and  passed  away 

In  triumph  and  disaster. 
A  little  life  of  work  and  wrong 

And  painful  incompleteness, 
Yet  mellowed  and  made  glad  with  song 

Of  most  surpassing  sweetness. 

His  birth  was  humble — not  for  him 

The  benefits  of  station, 
Rude  nature,  'mid  her  mountains  grim, 

Supplied  his  education; 
No  costly  culture  might  allow 

The  boy's  resources  narrow, 
And  so  they  sent  him  to  the  plough 

Who  could  not  go  to  Harrow. 

But  lofty  lineage,  reaching  far 

To  earth's  fresh,  early  morning, 
Had  he,  whose  brow  Wit's  diamond  star 

Shone  brightest  when  adorning. 
Above  his  cradle  Clio  smiled 

And  bards  of  ages  hoary, 
The  Skalds  themselves  owned  Burns  their  child, 

A  proud  ancestral  glory. 
172 


ROHKRT    lU'HNS  17.; 

fondest   wish,  lii-^  ««.rix»,iMl   ]<< 
fur  his  native  Hiijhhinds. 
0  Hoar  to  him  as  Ayr. 
In  all  the  British  IslamN; 

0g  of  Seotia'x  dii^ky  heath, 
Her  lochs  and  valleys  hazy. 
And  wove  a  lasting  laurel-wreath 
Of  one  wee  bonny  daisy. 

And  yet  all  lands  ami  men  were  held 

Within  his  love's  wide  ocean, 
Whose  waves  beat  music,  as  they  swelled, 

To  his  own  lyric  motion; 
The  genial  sunshine  of  his  soul, 

From  its  celestial  azure, 
Warmed  human  hearts  from  pole  to  pole 

With  sympathetic  pleasure. 

Whate'er  was  human  tliat  he  knew 

(As  once  was  said  in  Latin) 
To  be  akin,  and  loved  it,  too, 

In  calico  or  satin; 
And  so  his  pathos  and  his  mirth 

The  sportive  and  the  tender, 
Reign  round  the  Cotter's  homely  hearth, 

And  in  the  halls  of  splendour. 

He  sinned,  but  who  his  guilt  shall  weigh 

In  earthly  balance  rightly? 
What  man  among  us  all  can  say 

A  \\ord  of  censure  lightly? 
Op  with  his  wildest  freaks  divine 

Wliat  agonies  \\en-  mingled, 
That  turned  to  lees  the  golden  wine 

Which  through  his  tissues  tingled? 


174  ROBERT  BURNS 

O  manliest  bard  by  poets  praised, 

O  gentlest,  truest  nature! 
Who  your  own  fellow  mortal  raised 

To  manhood's  proper  stature, 
We  honor  in  your  life  the  most, 

Not  gifts  of  mind  resplendent, 
But  the  proud  claim  you  dared  to  boast, 

Of  being  independent. 

Another  hundred  years  shall  sweep 

To  Lethe's  sullen  waters 
All  things  whereat  men  laugh  or  weep, 

Earth's  conquests,  sorrows,  slaughters; 
But  rescued  from  the  silent  shore 

Of  that  oblivious  river, 
His  fame  shall  brighten  more  and  more 

And  Burns  shall  live  forever. 


HEXAMETERS  AT  JAMESTOWN 

SIXTEEN  ladies  and  gentlemen  made  up  a  party  at  Brandon 
Ivy  to  plant  on  the  old  church  tower,  fallen  to  ruin,  at  James 
town: 

So  quite  early  one  pleasant  and  peaceful  morning  of  April, 
Mounting  the  deck  of  a  high-pressure,  swift-sure,  trig  little 

steamboat, 
Down  stream  bravely  they  sailed,  while  gaily  the  ladies  their 

'kerchiefs 
Fluttered  by  way  of  Farewell  to  such  as  behind  on  the  wharf 

stood. 

Surely  the  sunlit  James  ne'er  bore  on  its  tremulous  bosom 
Vessel  so  freighted  with  loveliness^  innocence,  flowers,  and 

fruit-cake. 

Musical  laughter,  like  silvery  bells  or  the  falling  of  waters, 
Rose  on  the  grateful  breeze  which  rippled  the  awning  above 

us; 
While  'neath  the  cloud  of  the  canvas  the  star-like  eyes  of 

the  maidens 
Brilliantly  lighted  both  sides  of  the  steamer  till  each  was 

a  starboard, 
So  that  a  bachelor  captain  had  lost  both  his  heart  and  his 

bearings; 
Eyes  that  with  pleasure  at  times  still  marked  where  rested 

the  baskets, 
Since    the    villegiatura    must    always    be    hampered    with 

luncheon. 

After  a  while,  in  the  distance,  Jamestown's  mouldering  brick 
work, 

Softened  and  saddened   by  sunshine,  greeted  the  sight  of 
the  pilgrims — 

175 


176  HEXAMETERS  AT  JAMESTOWN 

linage  of  mournful  decay  in  the  midst  of  the  beautiful  land 
scape, 

River  before  and  forest  behind,  and  the  blue  of  the  welkin 

Bending  in  tenderness  over  the  delicate  green  of  the  wheat- 
fields— 

Green  that  gives  promise  of  gold  in  the  regal  abundance  of 
harvest, 

Just  as  the  well-filled  baskets  give  an  assurance  of  good 
things. 

Reaching  the  Island  in  safety  at  last,  and  dropping  the 
anchor, 

Swiftly  to  shore  we  glide  in  the  four-oared  cut-away  row 
boat — 

So  in  the  old  time  Christopher  Newport  himself  may  have 
landed 

Just  at  this  bloom  of  the  year  when  Spring  had  unfolded 
her  banners 

Over  the  woods  and  streams  of  her  own  Ancient  Dominion. 

Holy   the   calm   that   reigns    in   the   moss-grown,    desolate 

churchyard; 

And  as  a  party  of  tourists,  walking  across  the  Piazza, 
Murray  under  their  arms,  and  filling  the  court  with  their 

chit-chat, 
All   of   a   sudden   are   hushed   as   they   enter   the   nave  of 

St.  Peter's, 

So  when  the  Brandon  pilgrims  came  to  the  crumbling  en 
closure 
Guarding  the  dust  of  the  good  and  the  brave  that  slumber 

at  Jamestown, 
Pensive  and  silent  were  they,  and  the  awe  of  the  place  was 

unbroken. 
Reverent,   musing,   we   linger  to  trace  the   inscriptions   in 

Latin, 


HEXAMETERS  AT  JAMESTOWN  177 

Almost  illegible  now,  and  fading  away  from  the  marble; 

Then  to  the  time-eaten  turret,  walking  with  decorous  foot 
steps, 

Slowly  as  walked  to  the  temple  the  worshipping  settlers 
aforetime. 

Careful  we  set  in  the  consecrate  soil  the  shoots  of  the 
ivy 

Where  the  colonial  pilgrims  had  planted  the  germs  of  an 
empire. 

Then  spoke  Everett,  Edward  (first-rate  dactyl  and  spondee, 
Deftly  the  orator's  name  runs  into  hexameter  measure), 
Eloquent    words    of    response    to    the    simple    greeting    of 

welcome 

Offered  in  modest  phrase  by  one  of  the  sons  of  Virginia. 
Soft,  as  his  accents  arose  on  the  air,  from   the  ages  de 
parted 
Quaint  apparitions  and  shadows  majestical  gathered  around 

us: 

John  Smith,  valorous  captain,  Powhatan  friendly  in  coun 
cil, 

Pocahontas,  beloved  as  "his  dearest  iewell  and  daughter," 
Gazing  in  timid  delight  on  the  shining  plane  of  the  river, 
Where  was  a  steamer  that  bore  the  legended  name  of  the 

maiden. 
Gladly  we  would  have  communed  with  the  knight  and  his 

comely  companion, 

Gladly  have  shaken  the  hand  of  the  brave  old  Indian  chief- 
tarn; 

But  as  the  voice  of  the  speaker  again  relapsed  into  silence, 
Suddenly  vanished  the  shapes,  and  vacancy  stood  in  their, 

places — 

Just  as  the  music  had  ceased  whose  magical  spell  had  evoked 
them. 


178  HEXAMETERS  AT  JAMESTOWN 

After  the  speaking  was  luncheon,  then  we  returned  to  the 
steamboat, 

Ladies  and  gentlemen  pleased  with  the  task  they  had  fitly 
performed; 

Thus  was  the  pilgrimage  ended,  thus  was  replanted  the 
creeper, 

Over  the  mouldering  tower  to  hang  its  rich  curtain  again — 

And  as  the  ivy  shall  cling,  with  its  graceful  and  delicate  ten 
drils, 

Close  to  the  ruin  it  wraps  in  the  evergreen  mantle  of  love, 

Closer  and  closer  for  aye  when,  breaking  in  fury,  the  tempest, 

Pitiless,  wrathful,  descends  from  the  darkened  and  ominous 
sky; 

So  may  our  dearest  affections  inwreathe  the  magnificent 
fabric 

Reared  on  the  solid  foundations  of  Jamestown  and  Plym 
outh  of  old — 

Fabric  that  never  shall  fall,  upheld  by  the  prayers  of  a 
people, 

Till  the  last  sand  of  the  ages  shall  ebb  through  the  perish 
ing  glass! 


THE  MOTTO 

SOMEBODY  sent  me  a  dear  little  notr. 

The  paper  was  Moiuier's,  the  writing  was  fair; 
Shall  I  here  tell  you  what  somebody  wrote? 

No — let  the  muse  keep  the  secret  from  air. 
But  this  was  the  motto  the  seal  had  to  show, 
This — "C'est  le  coeur  qui  fait  valoir  les  mots." 

Somebody  walked  with  me.     Light  was  her  tread 

Over  the  beautiful  sunshiny  wold; 
Shall  I  here  tell  you  what  somebody  said? 

The  sunlight  has  faded,  the  words  have  grown  cold. 
Do  you  believe  in  the  motto  or  no? 
C'est — "C'est  le  cceur  qui  fait  valoir  les  mots." 

Somebody  sang  me  a  sweet  little  song 

Full  of  all  tender  unspeakable  things, 
Shall  I  repeat  them?     No,  ever  so  long 

They  have  flown  off  on  the  swiftest  of  wings, 
And  the  nest  they  deserted  is  white  with  the  snow— 
Ah,  "C'est  le  coeur  qui  fait  valoir  les  mots." 

Shall  I  with  censure  link  somebody's  name 

For  the  note,  and  the  walk,  and  the  fly-away  birds? 

No,  the  dear  creature  was  never  to  blame — 
She  had  no  heart  to  give  value  to  words; 

Sweetly  as  Hybla  her  accents  may  flow, 

Mais  "C'est  le  coeur  qui  fait  valoir  les  mots." 


179 


TO  E.  V.  V.*    1859 

SMOOTH  seas,  fair  breezes  and  bright  skies  attend 

Your  rapid  flight  to  Europe's  distant  climes; 
This  wish  I  offer  in  these  farewell  rhymes, 

With  a  sincere  "God  bless  you"  to  my  friend; 
And  may  the  aspirations  high  which  blend 
With  the  deep  sadness  of  the  parting  hour 
Rise  into  shapes  of  beauty  and  of  power 
Beneath  your  patient  chisel,  and  the  end 
Bring  the  sure  guerdon  of  a  lasting  fame. 
But,  oh,  remember  well  that  art  is  long 
And  life  is  short,  be  resolute  and  strong; 
So  may  Virginia  yet  be  proud  to  claim 

One  whom  the  world  of  Art  itself  shall  know 
A  new  Thorwaldsen  or  an  Angelo. 

*  Edward  V.  Valentine,  the  sculptor. 


180 


"VIRGINIA,  IN  OUR  FLOWING  BOWLS"36 

VIRGINIA!    In  our  flowing  bowls 

Thy  name  we  would  remember, 
Dear  as  is  Plymouth  to  the  souls 

Of  Pilgrims  in  December — 
They  hold  their  banquet  as  the  gloom 

Of  winter  round  them  closes; 
Our  festive  board  is  all  abloom 

With  spring's  returning  roses. 

The  poet  sings  our  father's  deeds, 

Their  forms  and  phrase  outlandish, 
And  yet  how  far  our  age  exceeds 

The  age  of  Smith  and  Standish! 
The  modern  Pilgrims  journey  all 

By  steam  o'er  land  and  ferry, 
And  we  the  "Starving  Time"  recall 

In  turtle  soup  and  sherry. 

Still  something  noble  we  may  learn 

In  yearly  thus  reviving 
The  virtues  of  those  settlers  stern — 

Their  suffering  and  striving. 
Our  fathers  wore  a  knightly  grace 

Above  their  fiery  passion, 
Which,  like  their  doublets  and  their  lace, 

Is  sadly  out  of  fashion. 
181 


182          "VIRGINIA,  IN  OUR  FLOWING  BOWLS" 

The  Spaniard  traces  in  the  Cid 

The  Campeador's  glory; 
The  stirring  Niebelungen  Lied 

Tells  many  a  hero's  story — 
Oh,  more  than  any  German  myth 

The  highest  praise  deserving, 
When  shall  you  have,  brave  Captain  Smith, 

Your  Halleck  or  your  Irving? 

What  though,  indeed,  you  left  behind 

No  chivalrous  descendants 
In  other  days  a  sword  to  find 

And  fight  for  Independence — 
Bear  witness  to  your  lofty  traits, 

Our  proud  historic  pages — 
The  ancient  Mother  of  the  States 

Shall  cherish  them  for  ages. 

Your  valor,  proved  in  Paynim  fights, 

And  tried  by  wild  disorder, 
With  Spottswood's  "Golden  Horseshoe"  Knights 

Went  trooping  o'er  the  border; 
It  stood  on  York's  embattled  lines 

With  yet  a  presence  grander, 
And  still  its  undimmed  lustre  shines 

In  Scott,  the  great  commander. 

Loved  Commonwealth  of  boyhood's  rule ! 

What  recollections  cluster 
Around  the  whitewashed  old  field  school, 

The  county  court-house  muster; 
From  all  the  city  toils  and  gains 

Our  hearts  are  turning  now,  sirs, 
To  dwell  in  those  sweet  Argive  plains 

Where  first  we  donned  the  trousers. 


"VIRGINIA,   IN  OUR  FLOWING   BOWLS"          183 

Still  docs  the  wavy  Ridge  extend 

Its  outlines  soft  before  us — 
Still  does  Virginia's  blue  arch  bend 

In  tender  beauty  o'er  us; 
The  oldest  exile  breathes  her  air 

With  all  the  latest  comers, 
And  here  tonight  we  gladly  share 

The  fervor  of  her  SUMMERS  ! 

"A  land  of  just  and  old  renown" 

To  native  or  to  resident — 
"Where  Freedom  broadens  slowly  down 

From  President  to  President" - 
We  change  the  laureate's  line — too  bad  ! 

But  think,  in  all  her  crises, 
How  many  Presidents  she's  had, 

How  very  few  of  Vices! 

Then,  brothers  of  the  good  old  State, 

Permit  an  absent  rhymer 
To  pledge  the  day  you  celebrate, 

But  not  in  Rudesheimer. 
He  likes,  whatever  others  think, 

Virginia's  own  libation, 
A  whiskey  julep  is  the  drink 

That  typifies  the  nation ! 

The  ice  we  take  of  liquid  blue 

From  Wenham's  crystal  fountains, 
The  whiskey  sparkles  with  the  dew 

Of  old  Virginia's  mountains — 
The  sugar  borrow  without  stint 

From  sunny  Opelousas, 
By  every  stream  springs  up  the  mint, 

From  Kennebec's  to  Coosa's. 


184          "VIRGINIA,   IN  OUR  FLOWING   BOWL" 

Que  voulez  vous?     'Tis  this — we  wait 

A  wheatstraw  from  the  prairie, 
(The  Hoosier  or  the  Sucker  State, 

Their  practice  does  not  vary). 
Here  North  and  South  and  East  and  West 

Are  met  in  sweet  communion — 
Now  drain  the  cup — this  toast  is  best, — 

VIRGINIA  AND  THE  UNION  ! 


POESY:  AN  ESSAY  IN  RHYME36 

IN  ancient  Greece  where  Art,  we  know,  was  born 

In  the  fresh  gladness  of  her  early  morn; 

When  Learning,  laurelled  goddess,  sweetly  smiled 

Above  the  cradle  of  her  fairest  child — 

They  kept  in  Athens  sacred  festival 

Of  eloquence,  and  song,  and  wit,  and  all 

That  made  of  Attica  a  classic  land 

From  lofty  Pindus  to  the  shining  strand; 

With  music's  lordly  swell,  the  stately  train 

Moved  onward  to  Minerva's  glittering  fane, 

Where  from  the  fervid  lips  of  genius  flowed 

The  measured  chorus  and  sparkling  ode 

Pure  as  Ilissus,  where  its  waters  run 

A  stream  of  flashing  silver  in  the  sun; 

And  thousand  voices,  mingling  in  the  paean, 

Stirred  the  light  wave  upon  the  blue  JSgean. 

Two  thousand  changeful  years  have  passed  away 
Of  cruel  havoc  and  of  fell  decay — 
The  polished  temples,  'neath  the  brilliant  sky 
Of  old  Athena,  now  in  ruin  lie; 
And  a  deep  pathos,  a  most  tender  pity, 
Subduei  the  soul  within  the  ancient  city: 
The  Erectheum — how  each  fragment  shines! 
What  desolate  beauty  in  the  broken  lines ! 
The  Parthenon — alas,  the  summer  breeze 
Kisses  3D  more  at  morn  the  perfect  frieze 
Which  once  revealed  the  glory  and  the  joy 
Panathenaic  to  the  Grecian  boy. 
185 


186  POESY:  AN  ESSAY   IN  RHYME 

But  the  great  poems  of  the  bards  sublime 
Remain  unwasted  by  the  wreck  of  Time; 
Graceful  and  calm,  in  symmetry  severe, 
These  wondrous  temples  of  the  mind  appear; 
And  light,  in  richer  flood  than  that  which  fills 
The  smiling  circuit  of  the  Athenian  hills, 
Streams  upon  shaft  and  portico  and  floor, 
"The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  shore!" 

Well  may  we  then  the  lyric  mode  combine 

With  glowing  eloquence  at  Learning's  shrine, 

When  our  Panathensea's  rites  we  hold, 

Not  with  the  gorgeous  pomp  and  pride  of  old, 

Not  yielding  homage  to  the  gods  that  reigned 

On  high  Olympus,  as  the  mythos  feigned, 

But  with  ascriptions  of  perennial  praise 

To  the  brave  singers  of  immortal  lays; 

And  all  who  robe  the  beauteous  form  of  Truth 

In  the  bright  colors  of  unfading  youth, 

From  ^Eschylus  to  Shakespeare,  from  the  trees 

Where  Wisdom  early  strayed  with  Socrates, 

To  the  lone  tower  where  Newton's  tireless  eye 

Read  the  strange  riddle  of  the  midnight  sky. 

Such  rites  we  celebrate  when  Science  calls 

Her  favored  children  to  a  hundred  halls, 

To  bless  the  guerdons,  nobly  won,  which  prove 

An  alma  mater's  all-abiding  love ! 

You  ask  for  rhymes,  you  bid  me  idly  seek 
To  throw  the  soft  enchantment  of  the  Greek 
O'er  the  rapt  sense  in  a  beguiling  dream — 
Vain  task!  but  still  be  Poesy  my  theme: 
Turn  with  me  then  awhile,  and  learn  the  spell 
Its  ministers  have  left  on  "flood  and  fell" — 


POESY:  AN  ESSAY  IN  RHYME  187 

Summon  the  Past,  and  bid  its  voice  rehearse 
Man's  checkered  story  since  the  primal  curse; 
Or  take  Imagination's  widest  range 
O'er  ivied  battlement  and  moated  grange, 
And  mark  what  renders  most  a  people  great, 
And  still  survives  the  ruin  of  the  State; 
How  the  long,  joyous,  pensive,  tender  strain 
Of  the  world's  music  cheats  the  world  of  pain — 
How  Fancy  brightens  with  her  magic  rays 
The  shadowy  vista  of  departed  days, 
And  casts  along  the  Ages'  downward  slope 
The  blended  hues  of  Memory  and  of  Hope ! 

Soft  you,  my  modest  muse,  nor  rashly  dare 

A  flight  so  lofty  through  the  realms  of  air; 

With  a  vague  sense  of  littleness  opprest 

I  walk  around  the  Theban  eagle's  nest, 

Conscious  that  could  I  steal  his  mighty  wings 

To  me  such  very  unfamiliar  things 

Would  be  as  useless  as  were  Roman  sandals 

To  one  of  Attila's  large-footed  Vandals — 

And  here  the  horrid  old  Horatian  maxim, 

Which  the  poor  rhymer's  had  so  long  to  tax  him, 

The  bard  remembers  and  may  fitly  quote 

(Though  doubtless  many  have  the  line  by  rote) 

That  neither  gods  nor  men,  in  their  distress. 

Nor  yet  the  columns  of  the  weekly  press, 

Can  view  as  other  than  a  dreadful  wrong 

The  lowlier  offerings  of  tuneful  song — 

A  line  which  means,  as  certain  critics  think, 

That  smaller  poets  should  not  deal  in  ink, 

And  that  until  the  mighty  prophets  come 

The  part  of  Poesy  is  to  be  dumb. 

Dishonored  ever  be  the  narrow  rule 


188  POESY:  AN  ESSAY  IN  RHYME 

Which  claims  no  reverence  in  kind  Nature's  school, 

Which  neither  Summer's  birds  nor  blooms  obey 

In  the  glad  minstrelsy  of  rising  day. 

Your  Miltons,  Goethes,  are  an  age  apart: 

Meanwhile  shall  no  one  touch  the  world's  sad  heart  ? 

The  stately  aloe's  snowy  bloom  appears 

But  once,  we  know,  within  a  hundred  years; 

Because,  forsooth,  the  aloe  is  the  glory 

Of  Chatsworth's  notable  conservatory, 

Shall  not  the  modest  daisy  from  the  sod 

Turn  its  meek  eyes  in  beauty  up  to  God? 

In  Nature's  daily  prayer,  when  comes  the  dawn 

To  tell  its  beads  upon  the  dewy  lawn, 

Shall  the  sweet  matins  of  the  rosy  hours 

Miss  the  pure  incense  of  the  little  flowers? 

O  gentle  spirits,  wheresoe'er  you  dwell, 

On  breezy  upland  or  hi  quiet  dell, 

Whether  you  sing  in  solitude  and  shade, 

Or  in  the  sullen,  crowded  haunts  of  trade — 

Whose  simple  rhyming,  in  its  artless  grace, 

Has  touched  some  hidden  sorrow  of  the  race, 

Or  taught  the  world  one  humble  lesson  more 

Of  subtle  beauty  all  unknown  before, 

Or  soothed  one  heart  just  when  its  need  was  sorest 

With  harmonies  of  ocean  and  of  forest — 

To  you  be  ever  honorable  meed, 

In  spite  of  captious  Horace  and  his  creed. 

While  the  great  poets  soar  beyond  the  ken 

Of  the  world's  toiling,  heaving  mass  of  men, 

Like  the  proud  falcon,  quickly  lost  to  view, 

In  the  wide  field  of  heaven's  o'erarching  blue — 

You  linger  round  the  dwellings  of  our  love, 

As  birds  that  carol  in  the  eaves  above, 

And  fill  forever,  as  the  days  increase, 

Our  homes  with  music  and  our  hearts  with  peace. 


POESY:  AN  ESSAY  IN  RHYME  189 

Thr  world  has  changed — there  are  who  gravely  doubt 

If  tin*  groat  epics  have  not  long  died  out — 

No  more  in  grandeur  the  Homeric  line 

Repeats  the  story  of  a  Troy  divine — 

No  more  the  pealing  medieval  hymn 

Rolls  down  the  shadowy  canto,  vast  and  dim, 

A  minster,  noblest  of  cathedral  piles, 

Where  Spenser  rambles  through  the  woodland  aisles — 

No  more  the  high  Miltonic  verse  reveals 

The  glooms  and  glories  of  the  awful  seals — 

In  blaze  supernal  or  in  dread  eclipse — 

Of  some  new  uninspired  Apocalypse: 

If  these  are  with  th'  imperishable  Past 

The  epic  surely  had  not  sung  its  last; 

For  never  swept  across  Time's  ample  stage 

An  unimpassioned,  unheroic  age — 

And  countless  generations  yet  to  be, 

In  later  eras  of  the  world,  shall  see 

A  life  as  worthy  of  the  epic  strain 

As  that  which  fired  the  age  of  Charlemagne, 

And  future  masters  of  the  lyre  shall  raise 

The  swelling  epos  of  our  modern  days. 

But  while  the  amaranth  waits  for  kingly  brows, 

Some  laurel  wreaths  our  grateful  love  allows 

To  him  whose  sunny  genius  lifts  to  light 

The  meanest  objects  of  our  daily  sight: 

Who  seeks  to  brighten  still  the  links  that  bind 

In  blest  communion  all  of  human  kind; 

Or  passion's  tempest  in  the  breast  would  calm 

With  some  sweet,  lowly,  penitential  psalrn: 

Such  poets  sow  the  seeds  of  truth  and  beauty 

To  blossom  into  holy  faith  and  duty — 

And  though  the  tares  of  selfishness  and  pride 

Spring  up  to  choke  them  upon  every  side, 

And  many  a  tender  shoot  the  world  erases 


190  POESY:  AN  ESSAY  IN  RHYME 

From  the  hard  pavements  of  its  market  places, 
Some  fall  on  friendly  soil,  warm  hearts  and  true, 
Where  watered  by  affection's  kindliest  dew 
They  stretch  their  boughs  into  the  upper  air 
And  in  due  season  richer  fruitage  bear 
Than  fabled  branches  hung  with  globes  of  gold, 
Some  thirty,  fifty,  some  an  hundred  fold ! 

Wouldst  know  the  value  of  a  simple  rhyme 

Sent  down  the  widening,  deepening  stream  of  time? 

Let  Memory  seek,  amidst  the  august  scenes 

So  recent — scarce  a  lustrum  intervenes, — 

The  chamber  where  the  dying  Webster  lay 

And  heard  the  elegiac  melodies  of  Gray 

Mingling  with  ocean's  everlasting  roar 

Borne  through  the  casement  from  the  neighb'ring  shore, 

The  deathless  music  of  th'  immortal  mind 

With  Nature's  grandest  symphonies  combined. 

Or  note  the  contrast  well  afforded  here 

And  let  the  triumph  of  the  bard  appear. 

Two  monumental  tributes  to  the  brave 

Mark  one  a  famous,  one  a  lonely  grave — 

Earth's  proudest  city,  gay  with  gilded  spires 

And  domes  which  kindle  in  the  sunset's  fires, 

Guards  one,  with  marble  muses  looking  down 

Where  sleeps  the  dust  that  wore  the  Caesar's  crown: 

The  universal  Earth,  the  common  air 

Contain  the  other — it  is  everywhere, 

As  far  as  mighty  England's  form  of  speech, 

Blown  wide  upon  the  winds  of  fame,  can  reach, 

Before  the  mental  eye  its  shape  it  rears 

Above  a  turf  bedewed  with  grateful  tears; 

And  when  Napoleon's  obsequies,  with  all 

Their  gorgeous  pageantry  of  plumes  and  pall, 


POESY:  AN   ESSAY   IN  RHYME  191 

Have  faded  quite  away  from  man's  esteem, 

Like  the  swift  splendors  of  a  passing  dream; 

When  the  proud  chapel  shall  itself  display 

A  shattered  monument  of  sad  decay — 

And  queenly  Paris  shall  have  shared  the  fate 

Of  Tadmor  overthrown  and  desolate; 

That  plaintive  Monody,  whose  numbers  tell 

Of  him  that  bravely  at  Corunna  fell — 

His  silent  burial  near  the  midnight  camp, 

By  the  pale  moonbeam  and  the  glimmering  lamp, 

Shall  still  the  cruel  waste  of  years  defy, 

Enduring  cenotaph  of  Poesy ! 

Wouldst  learn  the  fire  and  frenzy  that  belong 

To  the  hot  verses  of  the  battle-song? 

Hark!  to  the  sound  that  the  exulting  breeze 

Brings  to  our  land  across  the  rolling  seas 

From  distant  Gallia's  proud  ancestral  shores, 

Where  to  the  fight  the  glittering  column  pours. 

The  active  Zouave,  the  gallant,  gay  Chasseur, 

Feel  a  new  life  and  impulse  in  the  stir — 

With  ribbons  decked,  with  faces  bronzed  and  scarred, 

Move  on  the  serried  legions  of  the  Guard, 

Whose  steady  look  of  fierce  resolve  befits 

The  veteran  chivalry  of  Austerlitz. 

Listen !  what  thrilling  words  are  these  that  greet 

The  excited  thousands  of  that  crowded  street? 

Not  freedom's  flag  the  imperial  line  displays, 

But  yet  they  sing,  they  shout  the  Marseillaise ! 

In  vain  the  cautious  monarch  would  repress 

That  song's  impassioned  and  resistless  stress, 

Unchained  as  lightning,  with  electric  start 

Its  sudden  thrill  is  sent  from  heart  to  heart; 

And  if,  O  Italy,  devoted  land, 


192  POESY:  AN  ESSAY  IN  RHYME 

Once  more  begirt  with  beauty,  thou  shalt  stand 
Erect  among  the  nations  of  the  earth, 
In  all  the  strength  of  Freedom's  second  birth, 
The  force  that  still  must  drive  the  avenging  steel 
Lives  in  the  lyric  of  Rouget  de  Lisle ! 

And  yet  not  long,  O  Poesy,  not  long, 

May  War,  earth's  oldest  and  its  direst  Wrong, 

Demand  thy  paeans — Mercy  waits  and  pleads 

With  thee  to  celebrate  her  glorious  deeds. 

While  many  a  golden-roofed  cathedral  rings 

With  the  Te  Deums  of  victorious  kings, 

And  from  the  crimsoned  field,  by  combat  riven, 

The  blood  of  hecatombs  appeals  to  Heaven, 

Thine  is  a  higher,  holier  evangel, 

And  thine  the  rustling  pinions  of  the  angel 

That  comes,  with  softest  sunshine  in  its  face, 

To  soothe  and  bless  and  elevate  the  race — 

Celestial  visitant  that  walked  with  Burns 

"Following  the  plough,"  or  when  the  poet  turns 

To  catch  the  Cotter's  evening  hymn  of  praise 

Sung  by  the  ingle's  ever  cheerful  blaze; — 

That  dwelt  with  Rydal's  bard  all  round  the  year 

By  the  sweet  margin  of  Winandermere; 

And  flying  wide  across  the  dusky  downs 

In  the  heart  of  England's  fevered  towns, 

Unseen  of  other  men,  serenely  stood 

Beside  the  form  of  gentle  Thomas  Hood, 

With  drooping  plumage  and  dejected  eyes 

By  the  dark  river  of  the  Bridge  of  Sighs ! 

The  world  has  changed;  there  are  who  much  deplore 
That  the  bright  rein  of  Poesy  is  o'er — 
Who  tell  us  that  as  man  each  year  recedes 


POESY:  AN  ESSAY  IN  RHYME  193 

From  the  sweet  trustfulness  of  childhood's  creeds, 

And  sees  these  cherished  blossoms  die  within 

The  baleful  glare  of  worldliness  and  sin — 

So,  as  the  planet  on  its  course  is  rolled, 

As  age  of  iron  follows  age  of  gold, 

The  dear  illusion  we  would  not  resist 

Fades,  like  a  curtain  of  dissolving  mist, 

Before  the  glare  of  science,  reaching  far 

From  wave  to  mountain,  and  from  star  to  star, 

And  still  dethroning,  disenchanting  fast 

The  idols  and  the  idylls  of  the  Past. 

We'll  not  believe  it.     Shall  the  windy  ocean 

Stop  the  careering  of  its  rhythmic  motion, 

Or  'neath  the  moonlight,  when  the  whirlwinds  cease, 

No  longer  woo  us  to  a  dream  of  peace 

Because  a  Maury,  standing  at  the  helm, 

Drives  the  proud  bark  of  Science  o'er  its  realm, 

Detects  its  viewless  currents  in  their  courses 

And  brings  to  measurement  its  mighty  forces? 

Shall  not  the  sun  still  seek  the  Jungfrau's  side 

To  deck  with  diamonds  his  majestic  bride — 

Shall  not  the  glacier's  beryl-tinted  caves, 

Beneath  the  glittering  waste  of  icy  waves, 

Still  shake  with  hallelujahs,  peal  on  peal, 

And  all  Chamouni's  templed  valley  reel, 

From  brawling  Arve  to  pinnacled  Aiguille, 

Because  a  learned  botanist  uncloses 

The  scarlet  petals  of  the  Alpine  roses, 

And  some  pale  student  asks  the  frozen  arch 

The  secret  of  the  glacier's  onward  march? 

Ah,  "star-eyed  Science!"     Fancy  claims  in  thee 

A  loving  sister  of  the  World  To  Be — 

Admits  each  worthy,  reverent  son  of  thine 

As  priest  to  worship  at  her  radiant  shrine, 


194  POESY:  AN  ESSAY  IN  RHYME 

And  comes  with  tenderest  sorrow,  in  her  turn, 
To  place  a  garland  upon  Humboldt's  urn. 

All,  all  are  poets  on  whom  God  confers 

The  gift  of  Nature's  true  interpreters; 

While  the  eternal  hills  then*  anthems  raise 

And  swelling  oceans  vocalize  his  praise. 

But  not  alone  from  woods,  and  rocks,  and  streams, 

Niagaras  and  Alps,  and  starry  gleams, 

Must  the  true  poet  catch  his  inspirations 

To  chant  the  De  Profundis  of  the  nations — 

'Tis  his  to  turn  from  Nature's  outward  things 

And  trace,  with  prophet-glance,  the  hidden  springs 

Of  human  life  and  action  in  the  soul, 

Whence  the  unceasing  torrents  rage  and  roll 

With  headlong  fury  to  the  shoreless  main, 

In  thunder  worthy  of  his  loftiest  strain. 

And  not  from  cloud  and  rainbow  must  he  draw 

The  subtle  principle  of  Beauty's  law. 

*Tis  his  to  wander  from  purpureal  skies 

And  loveliest  landscapes,  with  a  glad  surprise, 

And  gaze  delighted  into  Woman's  eyes — 

And,  as  the  languor-loving  Cingalese, 

Whose  look  is  bent  on  India's  opal  seas, 

Are  ever  mindful  of  the  pearls  that  glow 

With  lambent  lustre  in  the  deeps  below — 

To  mark  therein  the  priceless  gems  that  shine 

Of  Truth  and  Purity  and  Faith  Divine: 

And  more  than  all  'tis  his  in  joy  to  preach 

The  glorious  gospel  of  unfettered  speech, 

And  sing  the  high  divinity  of  man 

By  Freedom  far  removed  from  kingly  ban; 

Well  may  the  noble  theme  inspire  his  rhyme 

In  this  our  richly-favored  western  clime, 


POESY:  AN  ESSAY  IN  RHYME  195 

Whose  banner  streams  against  the  sunset's  bars 
And  blends  its  baldric  with  the  dripping  stirs. 
Where  Peace  has  left  her  name  upon  the  tide, 
And  through  the  Golden   Gates  the  world's  great   navies 
ride! 


"SING,   TENNYSON,  SING!"37 

THERE  is  a  sound  of  thunder  afar, 

Where  is  the  laureate  true  to  his  pay? 
Let  him  come  forward  and  sing  of  the  war. 
Well,  if  it  does  not  shut  up  his  lay. 
Sing,  sing,  Tennyson,  sing ! 
Ready,  be  ready,  with  ting-a-ling ! 
Tennyson,  Tennyson,  Tennyson,  sing ! 

Be  not  deaf  to  the  shrill  French  horns, 

Be  not  gulled  by  Napoleon  petit. 
Are  figs  of  thistles  or  grapes  of  thorns? 
What  says  the  laureate?     Fiddle-de-dee. 
Sing,  sing,  Tennyson,  sing ! 
Ready,  be  ready,  with  ting-a-ling ! 
Tennyson,  Tennyson,  Tennyson,  sing ! 

Let  your  Idylls  a  moment  go, 

Look  to  your  butt  of  sack  and  your  fame. 
Better  a  silly  lyric  or  so 

Than  a  silly  book  or  an  epic  to  blame. 
Sing,  sing,  Tennyson,  sing ! 
Ready,  be  ready,  with  ting-a-ling ! 
Tennyson,  Tennyson,  Tennyson,  sing ! 

Sing,  we  are  all  on  hand  to  applaud ! 

Sing  in  Mars's  name  and  the  Queen's; 
True,  you  have  recently  given  us  Maud, 
But  only  the  devil  knows  what  that  means. 
Sing,  sing,  Tennyson,  sing! 
Ready,  be  ready,  with  ting-a-ling! 
Tennyson,  Tennyson,  Tennyson,  sing! 
196 


"ONCE  MORE  THE  ALUMNI"38 

I 

ONCE  more  the  Alumni  assemble!  Ala- ! 

That  their  ranks  are  not  full,  that  they  come  not  en  masse. 

How  gladly  I'd  greet  my  old  comrades39  again 

With  the  grasp  of  affection,  the  glass  of  champagne. 

II 

What  a  joyous  symposium  of  soul  there  would  be 
Could  we  all  meet  around  the  "Mahogany  tree," 
And  talk  of  the  sessions  of  ages  ago, 
When  old  Gess  was  the  chairman,  "Consule  Planco." 

Ill 

That  kind  ex-professor,  long,  long  may  he  wave! 

Would  tell  me  quite  likely  with  countenance  grave 

As  that  of  the  sad  apparition  of  Banquo, 

That  my  accent  was  wrong,  and  it  should  be  called  "Planco." 

IV 

But  the  pleasantest  thing  of  these  annual  dinners 
Is  this — that  false  quantities  vex  not  us  sinners, 
No  bothersome  "Final"  the  old  ones  harasses 
On  crabbed  constructions,  or  cosines,  or  gases. 

V 

We  think  not  of  Niebuhr — we  care  not  a  flam 
What  may  be  the  distinction  'twixt  ita  and  tarn; 
Logarithms  and  their  tables  we  gladly  dismiss 
For  just  such  a  rhythm  and  a  table  as  this. 

197 


198  "ONCE  MORE  THE  ALUMNI 


VI 

Sooth  the  verse  might  be  smoother,  the  wit  be  more  keen, 
Better  suited  at  once  to  the  guests  and  cuisine, 
But  the  feeling  which  prompts  and  the  love  which  inspires 
Come  direct  from  the  heart,  all  aglow  with  its  fires. 


VII 

For  I  think,  as  I  scribble  these  fugitive  lines, 
Of  the  anni  fugaces  and  round  me  there  shines 
The  fair  laughing  sunlight  aforetime  that  fell 
On  the  haunts  and  the  friends  I  remember  so  well. 


VIII 

I  see  the  bright  faces,  the  voices  I  hear 
Ring  out  from  the  past  silver  chiming  and  clear; 
But  they  mingle  anon  with  a  funeral  hymn, 
And  the  laughter  is  ghastly,  the  sunlight  is  dim. 

IX 

Is  it  laughter  from  Lethe — that  stream,  does  it  roll 
In  sullen  forgetfulness  over  the  soul, 
As  in  silence  we  gaze  across  graves  that  are  green 
Back  on  life's  early  morning  so  fresh  and  serene? 

X 

Oh  no:  in  our  innocent  revel  we  turn 
To  recall  our  companions — departed — to  learn 
From  their  lives  the  one  paramount  lesson  of  life: 
Time  is  short,  duty  presses,  be  strong  for  the  strife ! 


'ONCE  MORE  THE  ALUMNI"  199 


XI 

One  there  was,  something  wayward,  impulsive  and  wild; 
A  Hylas  in  beauty,  in  freshness  a  child; 
First  among  us  in  gifts,  we  who  loved  him  lang  syne 
This  poor  immortelle  for  his  tomb  may  entwine. 


xn 

And  there  was  another,  whose  soul  held  secure 
Whatsoever  was  honest  and  lovely  and  pure, 
In  meekness  he  walked  by  the  light  of  the  Word, 
And  laid  down  his  robes  at  the  feet  of  the  Lord ! 


XIII 

'Tis  enough: — every  new  celebration  gives  birth 
By  turns  to  emotions  of  sadness  and  mirth, 
With  a  smile  on  the  lip  and  a  tear  in  the  eye 
Our  hearts  have  their  April  this  fourth  of  July. 

XIV 

And  so  for  a  gayer  remembrance, — but  where 

Are  the  boys  who  ought  all  in  your  banquet  to  share? 

Why  come  they  not  yearly  as  pilgrims  to  find 

Near  the  sweet  ville  of  Charlotte  their  Mecca  of  mind? 


XV 

There's  the  late  Mr.  Speaker,  he  lingers  at  home, 
There  are  Congressmen  under  the  capitol's  dome, 
There  are  soldiers  and  merchants,  divines  and  M.  D.'s 
And  lawyers  a  legion,  pray  where  are  all  these? 


200  "ONCE  MORE  THE  ALUMNI" 


XVI 

There  are  Judges — I  know  of  a  learned  one,  too — 
If  the  Court  know  itself  and  the  Court  think  it  do — 
Who  had  rather  his  thirst  at  your  festival  quench 
Than  be  off  on  his  circuit,  the  pride  of  the  bench. 

XVII 

There's  a  Bishop,  whose  name  would  illumine  my  Lay, 
He  has  now  little  time  to  indulge  him  in  play, 
What  a  pattern  he  was  in  his  piety's  dawn 
Even  then,  like  a  Bishop,  he  honoured  "the  Lawn." 

XVIII 

There  are  lots  of  Professors,  not  distant  to  seek, 
Full  of  law  and  of  gospel,  good  humor  and  Greek, 
Some  are  with  you — take  care  of  them — such  are  the  crown 
Of  our  loved  Alma  Mater's  most  brilliant  renown. 


XIX 

We  have  Editors  also — there's  one  at  your  board, 
His  mind  with  all  eloquent  memories  stored, 
As  his  pocket  with  proof-sheets;  he's  ready  to  spout 
In  a  speech  or  a  paragraph — just  call  him  out. 


XX 

Nor  will  you  forget,  in  the  honours  you  pay 
To  Genius,  the  eulogist  lately  of  Clay — 
Methmks  I  can  see  you  all  shaking  your  sides 
At  the  fun,  fast  and  flashing,  he  always  provides, 


"ONCE  Mom:  mi:  ALUMNI"  201 


XXI 

Who  a  name  that's  hold  high  ever  higher  would  raise, 
Whose  culture,  both  Mcnti     and  A«ri     \ve  praise; 
A  rat  or  and  Orator,  twice  is  he  great 
Who  makes  the  best  speeches  and  crops  in  the  state. 

XXII 

I  must  close.     Let  me  give  you  a  toast — here's  the  U- 
niversity,  bless  her  and  prosper  her  too, 
Till  she  shine  in  the  blue  an    of  Science  from  far 
The  reigning,  the  bright  and  particular  star! 

XXIII 

May  the  range  of  the  learning  she  freely  imparts 
Encircle  the  whole  wide  domain  of  the  Arts, 
Till  a  Raphael  shall  group  all  her  scholars,  and  lo! 
With  the  "School  of  Virginia"  the  canvas  shall  glow:— 

XXIV 

May  her  walls  and  her  domes  in  their  beauty  still  rise 
From  the  sweetest  of  fields  to  the  softest  of  skies. 
And  her  name,  ever  proud,  greater  homage  command 
While  the  sentinel  Ridge  on  her  border  shall  stand. 


MISERRIMUS 

ON  the  last  night  but  one  of  the  year  '67, 

When  a  snow  cloud  hung  darkly  'twixt  Broadway  and  heaven, 

And  the  wind  blew  chill  down  the  frozen  street 

Where  the  warm-gloved  watchman  walked  his  beat, 

And  Blanche  o'er  her  bare  white  beautiful  shoulder 

Pulled  her  furs  and  remarked  "'Tis  decidedly  colder," 

As  lightly  she  stepped  from  the  door  of  the  play 

To  the  soft  cushioned  seat  of  her  shining  coupe; 

On  that  last  night  but  one  of  the  year  '67, 

As  the  clocks  in  the  steeple  were  striking  eleven, 

An  everyday  tragedy,  old  as  the  hills, 

A  tragedy  never  set  down  in  the  bills, 

Acted  itself  with  a  sad  iteration 

For  its  thousand  and  fiftieth  representation: 

Nobody  there  when  the  curtain  rose, 

Nobody  present  to  witness  the  close, 

Only  the 'All-Seeing  Eye  to  behold  it. 

Say,  reader  mine,  would  you  like  to  be  told  it? 

Very  well,  I  will  tell 

How  the  matter  befell. 

Place,  the  Fifth  avenue;  time,  just  recited: 
Background,  a  mansion  all  brilliantly  lighted. 
One  little  scena,  how  long  I'm  not  sure; 
Possibly  'twas  but  a  mauvais  quart  d'heure. 
Dramatis  persona,  one  little  Italian, 
A  tatterdemalion. 

202 


MISERRIMUS  203 

As  ragged — I  give  the  report  of  a  friend 

Who  arrived  opportunely  just  after  the  end, 

And  who  widely  has  wandered  from  country  and  home — 

As  ragged  as  ever  he 

Saw  in  Trastevere, 

Over  the  tawny-tinged  Tiber  at  Rome. 
Ragged  and  friendless  and  dirty  and  brown, 
Good-for-naught,  vagabond  boy  of  the  town, 
Who  lived  in  the  streets,  and  who  slept  in  a  shanty, 
And  spoke,  in  his  way,  the  rich  language  of  Dante; 

Not  the  lingua  Toscana 

In  bocca  Romana, 

But  a  sort  of  patois  of  the  Tuscan  so  flowery, 
With  scraps  of  the  sterner  discourse  of  the  bowery. 

Wrell,  these,  you  will  say, 

For  a  tragical  play, 

Are  materials  scant  as  the  skirts  of  the  ballet, 
Yet  I  boldly  aver,  with  the  sombre  finale, 
They  would  serve  for  a  very  fine  painting  by  Gallait. 

Now  this  little  scamp 

Was  accustomed  to  tramp 
From  Jefferson  Market  to  Madison  Square, 
Through  the  highways  and  lanes  of  our  Vanity  Fair; 
And  as  Christian  in  weariness  carried  his  pack, 
So  he  bent  'neath  the  weight  of  a  harp  on  his  back; 

Which  he  often  unslung, 

And  vindictively  strung, 

In  a  manner  distressing,  as  possibly  you  know, 
To  wreak  on  the  public  the  music  of  Gounod. 
All  the  Christmas — blest  season  of  innocent  mirth 
When  a  Glory  Ineffable  rests  on  the  earth, 
Since  Bethlehem  witnessed  Immanuel's  birth — 
All  the  Christmas  did  little  Miserrimus  trudge, 


204  MISERRIMUS 

A  wandering  minstrel,  through  snow  and  through  sludge, 
('Twas  a  holiday  cheerless  for  such  as  he, 
For  he  plucked  the  fruit  of  no  Christmas  tree, 
Nor  did  Santa  Claus  during  his  stillest  repose 
Stuff  bonbons  and  lollipops  into  his  hose: 

And  the  reason's  quite  shocking — 

He  hadn't  a  stocking !) 

Till  that  night  when  the  stars  in  the  snow-cloud  were  lost, 
And  fiercely  as  fire  came  the  terrible  frost, 
When,  like  many  who  drag  through  this  world  of  care, 
He  at  last  found  his  burden  too  heavy  to  bear, 
And  sank  on  the  steps  of  a  brown-stone  palace, 
Where  glittered  the  lustres  and  sparkled  the  chalice, 
For  the  gorgeous  rooms  were  ablaze  with  light 
That  streamed  through  the  windows  out  into  the  night; 
And  there,  to  the  soft  muffled  sound  of  the  viol, 
Forgetting  his  hunger,  and  fever  and  trial, 
The  boy,  who  had  no  other  wrapping  to  keep, 
Was  very  soon  wrapped  in  the  mantle  of  sleep. 

It  so  chanced  that  two  gentlemen,  passing  that  way, 

From  the  Nickleby  Reading,  the  Theatre  Frangais — 

Smike's  wrongs  and  the  queenly  despair  of  Ristori — 

On  a  sudden  encountered  our  young  Trovatore: 

'Twas  just  as  the  watchman,  to  know  what  the  knave  meant, 

Had  rolled  him  in  tenderness  down  on  the  pavement, 

Had  asked  in  a  kindly,  constabular  tone, 

What  he  wanted,  and  bade  him  get  up  and  be  gone. 

But  Miserrimus  answered  him  never  a  word, 

Nor  waked  from  his  slumber  nor  whispered  nor  stirred. 

The  harp-strings  were  mute  as  the  harp-strings  of  Tara, 

And  dumb  in  the  bundle  of  rags  was  the  wearer. 

Alack !  what  he  wanted  just  now  was — a  coffin, 

For  the  poor  little  beggar  was  dead  as  the  Dauphin, 


MISEHIIIMUS  205 

And  the  soul  of  the  outcast,  escaping  its  bars, 
Away  through  the  snow-cloud  that  shut  out  the   stars, 
Auay  from   the  sorrows  and  sins  of  the  city, 
Had  taken  its  flight  to  the  Infinite  Pity! 

Voila  tout! 

Nothing  nr\\, 

Very  true — 

But  with  yon, 

The  moral,  O  people!  I  leave  it  with  you — 
The  poor  ye  have  always;  oh.  think  of  the  poor 
Who  perish  of  hunger  and  cold  at  your  door; 
Remember  the  words  of  the  Master,  who  came 
A  \\orld  to  redeem — what  is  done  in  My  Name 
(Oh,  blessed  assurance !  oh,  benison  free !) 
To  the  least  of  these  little  ones  is  as  to  me; 
Think  of  the  homeless  sons  of  labor, 
And  know  that  each  man  of  them  all  is  your  neighbor: 
Think  of  the  thousands  that  famish  and  die 
In  the  sorrowful  South,  of  the  children  that  cry 
For  food  unto  mothers,  who  writhe  with  the  pain 
That  the  "cry  of  the  children."  O  God!  is  in  vain. 
Soothe  in  your  mercy  this  bitter  woe 
That  the  tears  of  this  agony  cease  to  flow; 
Lift  ye  the  desolate  out  of  the  dust, 
And  then,  with  a  higher,  a  holier  trust, 
May  your  morning  petition,  O  brothers!  be  said, 
Give  its  this  day  our  daily  bread! 


GEORGE  WYTHE  RANDOLPH 


AND  is  he  dead  whom  we  have  loved  so  well— 

The  sailor,  soldier,  scholar,  statesman,  dead! 

And  it  remains  that  we  shall  rightly  tell 

His  virtues,  and  the  crowning  grace  that  shed 

A  tender  radiance  over  all  his  story — 

A  radiance  deepening  at  the  end  to  glory, 

And  trailing  light  along  the  darksome  way 

By  which  he  passed  to  everlasting  day. 

And  he  is  gone,  we  shall  not  see  him  more, 

Nor  hear  him  yet  in  that  familiar  strain 

Wherewith  he  held  us  captive  heart  and  brain, 

Of  gentler  fancies  and  of  wisest  lore: 

We  still  sit  listening,  though  the  voice  is  hushed, 

Nor  ignorantly  hold  our  loss  less  great 

That  his  is  a  translation  to  the  skies 

From  all  the  thickening  sorrows  of  the  state — 

A  land  impoverished  and  a  people  crushed — 

That  having  borne  the  cross,  he  gains  the  prize ! 

Of  little  faith  we  are  that  we  should  weep 

When  God  the  Father  calls  His  children  hence 

With  love  unanswered  by  our  mortal  sense — 

For  so  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

II 

Our  friend  was  of  a  lofty  house  and  line, 
And  owned  as  heritage  an  honored  name; 
And  with  it,  goodlier  legacy  than  this, 
The  love  of  all  things  lovely,  noble,  true: 
206 


GEORGE  WYTHE  RANDOLPH  207 

Wisdom  with  goodness  did  in  him  combine. 
Yet  such  a  modesty,  most  rare,  was  his; 
And  so  apart  he  lived  from  noisy  fame, 
And  held  so  cheaply,  he  to  duty  vowed, 
As  ever  only  may  the  wise  and  few 
The  plauditory  clamor  of  the  crowd; 
Content  to  do  the  task,  to  bear  the  burden, 
Careless  to  win  the  empty,  earthly  guerdon, 
His  greatness  might  have  blossomed  all  unseen, 
Unrecognized,  save  in  the  narrow  view 
Of  home,  had  not  the  tumult  of  the  time, 
And  sore  calamity  of  common  weal, 
Called  him  to  action  on  a  stage  sublime, 
And  to  his  life  affixed  the  enduring  seal: 
But  centered  in  the  full,  intensest  light, 
That  fiercest  blaze  of  war  across  the  land, 
Wherein  your  little  nature  looked  so  mean — 
Your  party  hero  but  a  paltry  thing. 
He  rose  full  statured  to  that  kingly  height 
That  we,  who  had  not  known  him  for  a  king, 
But  deemed  him  great,  and  worthy  of  command, 
Rejoiced  nor  marvelled  at  his  renown; 
Till  wasted  with  his  work  he  laid  it  down. 
Worn  out  with  petty  rivalries  and  strife, 
And,  bending  mostly  'neath  the  country's  care, 
Within  the  inner  temple  of  his  life 
Withdrew  himself  as  to  a  house  of  prayer, 
And  walked  therein  serenely  to  the  close, 
Through  ever-present  suffering,  yet  beguiled 
By  tenderest  sympathy  and  fondest  looks — 
By  sweet  idolatry  of  art  and  books, 
Ajid  nature  in  far  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
And  by  the  love  of  hers  who  loved  him  best; 
Thus  gently  solaced,  chastened,  reconciled, 


208        GEORGE  WYTHE  RANDOLPH 

In  meek  submission  to  the  chastening  rod, 

But  ever  yearning  for  diviner  rest, 

Nearer  he  drew  unto  the  peace  of  God 

Which  passeth  understanding,  richly  blest 

With  earnest  of  an  infinite  repose, 

When  death  at  last  should  kindly  set  him  free. 

Ill 

Virginia  mourns  him,  and  with  happier  fates, 

Warriors  and  statesmen  might  have  borne  his  pall; 

And  had  his  been  a  public  funeral, 

Lamented  by  a  league  of  sorrowing  States, 

With  eulogy  and  anthem,  trumpet's  wail, 

And  pealing  guns  upon  the  evening  breeze, 

And  flags  had  drooped  half  mast  in  distant  seas, 

Where  he,  the  sailor  boy,  had  braved  the  gale; 

And  we,  when  time  all  jealousies  had  stilled, 

Had  placed  his  marble  image  in  a  niche 

Of  that  majestic  fane,  with  sculptures  rich, 

And  soaring  dome,  that  we  shall  never  build; 

But  now  his  image  in  our  hearts  is  shrined, 

And  what  is  mortal  of  the  man  consigned, 

In  all  the  sanctity  of  private  grief, 

To  mother  earth,  amid  ancestral  tombs, 

Within  those  hallowed  precincts  which  contain 

The  dust  of  Monticello's  mighty  dead; 

There  would  I  stray  alone  with  reverent  tread 

As,  o'er  the  mountain,  spring  her  joyous  reign 

Reviews  with  all  her  beauteous  tints  and  blooms, 

And  April's  whisper  stirs  the  tender  leaf — 

There,  softly  stray  as  in  some  minster  dim 

Where  saints  and  martyrs  slept  beneath  the  nave, 

To  call  up  gentlest  memories  of  him, 

And  lay  the  earliest  violets  on  his  grave. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  VIRGINIA*0 

HERE  at  the  well-remembered  gates 

Through  which  we  entered  Learning's  fane 
Led,  brothers,  by  the  kindly  fates, 

In  joy  we  meet  again; 
And  all  the  troubled  Past  rolls  by 
Like  storm-clouds  from  the  summer  sky, 
Till,  lo !  Youth's  sudden  reappearing  grace, 
A  golden  sunlight,  bathes  and  beautifies  the  place. 

To-day  our  Mother  greets  her  sons, 
With  tender  meaning  in  her  eyes, 
The  lofty  and  the  lowly  ones, 
The  wayward  and  the  wise; 
Alike,  who,  to  enrich  her  fame, 
Come  laurelled  with  an  honored  name, 
For  virtue,  knowledge,  proud  achievement  known, 
And  those  who  haply  yet  can  offer  love  alone. 

And  this  in  wealth  I  freely  bring, 

As  mindful  of  this  careless  rhyme, 
When  only  high  imagining 

Befits  the  thoughtful  time, 
When  memories  round  us  thickly  throng 
Had  moved  the  mightiest  lords  of  song 
To  epic  majesty  or  lyric  rage, 
Such  as  still  lives  and  burns  on  the  Miltonic  page. 

But  well  I  know  that  love  sincere 

Our  Mother  will  not  cast  aside, 
Nor  yet  with  solemn  brows  severe 

Our  little  failings  chide; 
209 


210  UNIVERSITY  OF  VIRGINIA 

Today  no  crabbed  tasks  she  sets 

Of  cosines  or  of  sulphurets: 
The  Sybil's  awful  tome  she  shuts  awhile, 
And  bids  us  all  once  more  be  happy  in  her  smile. 

Since  last  these  friendly  walks  I  trod, 

My  rambling  feet  have  chanced  to  stray 
Where  rise  o'er  England's  verdant  sod 

The  "antique  towers"  of  Gray; 
And  where  all  softly  Isis  glides 
To  mirror  in  her  tranquil  tides 
The  stately  domes,  the  immemorial  trees, 
That  give  a  nameless  charm  to  Oxford's  lettered  ease. 

But  Eton  lacked  the  magic  spell, 

With  Oriel's  ivy-clambered  walls, 
That  works  its  wondrous  miracle 

In  these  familiar  halls; 
That  leads  our  footsteps  swiftly  back 
In  fancy,  o'er  life's  devious  track, 
Till  on,  by  path  with  plenteous  roses  strewn, 
In  glad  surprise  again  we  reach  our  twentieth  June. 

O  Alma  Mater !  brighter  far 

To  us  thy  whitewashed  brick  arcades 
Than  Europe's  Gothic  minsters  are, 

Or  classic  colonnades: 
More  dear  these  hills  of  oak  and  pine 
Than  all  the  purple  Apennine, 
Since  here  from  boy  to  man  we  grew  in  turn, 
And  lessons  daily  caught  we  never  can  unlearn. 

Here  Nature  year  by  year  revealed 

The  truths  that  Science  would  impress, 


UN1VKRSITY  OF  VIRGINIA  211 

As  spring  threw  over  copse  and  field 
Her  newly  woven  drr^. 

And  Autumn,  walking  in  her  pride 

The  maple-belted  mountain-side, 
Flung  out  her  scarlet  banners  to  the  day, 
Till  the  whole  Blue  Ridge  owned  her  coming  and  her  sway. 

The  Present  was  a  rhythmic  ode 

That  beat  to  pulses  of  the  heart, 
And  music  from  the  future  flowed 

Diviner  than  Mozart: 
That  music  swells  for  us  no  more, 
That  strain  is  hushed  on  sea  and  shore; 
But  those  who  come  our  places  here  to  fill 
Can  catch  its  joyous  burst,  its  glorious  strophe,  still. 

How  quick  from  premise  unto  proof 

Our  yet  undimmed  perceptions  ran ! 
How  far  we  built  from  base  to  roof 

Our  chdteaux  en  Espagnel 
Then  life  was  but  a  reeling  sense 
Of  something  like  omnipotence: 
The  lips  we  loved,  the  sweetest  earthly  flowers, 
Bloomed,  smiled  for  us,  and  all  the  giddy  world  was  ours ! 

De  Juventute,  threadbare  theme 

In  every  age  of  pen  and  tongue — 
How  gladly  we  dream  o'er  the  dream 

We  dreamt  when  we  were  young ! 
Nor  futile  yet  this  backward  view, 
Could  we  our  early  faith  renew, 
And  with  the  joy  and  freshness  of  our  youth, 
Revive  in  all  its  strength  our  boyish  trust  in  Truth. 


212  UNIVERSITY  OF  VIRGINIA 

For  soon  amid  the  worldly  din 

Of  man's  incessant  strife  for  gold — 
What  time  our  hair  grew  gray  or  thin — 

That  early  faith  grew  cold: 
Illusions  that  we  dearest  held 
Were  sadly,  one  by  one,  dispelled: 
The  pageant  faded,  and  that  boyish  trust, 
Ere  life's  meridian  hour,  lay  trodden  in  the  dust. 

One  self-same  fortune  all  have  known 

Of  human  life's  unvaried  round, 
Who  wandered  to  earth's  farthest  zone 

Or  tilled  their  native  ground: 
On  for  off  oceans  rudely  tost, 
Or  deep  in  roaring  cities  lost, 
All,  all  have  grieved,  whatever  else  was  gained, 
Some  precious  chance  ill  used,  some  guerdon  unattained. 

In  vain,  as  boys  or  men,  we  seek 

The  mind's  ideal;  still  it  flies 
Our  eager  grasp,  from  peak  to  peak, 

Beyond  the  distant  skies; 
Or  from  some  lofty  pathless  cliff 
Forever  mocks  us  with  an  //, 
Until  we  weary  of  the  idle  quest 
And,  baffled  oftentimes,  sit  down  and  long  for  rest. 

And  thus,  in  ceaseless  care  and  strife, 
Man  walks  the  plain  or  toils  the  steep, 

And  then  at  last  "our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep": 

Thrice  happy  they  who  leave  behind 

Some  deathless  work  of  heart  or  mind, 


UNIVERSITY  OF  VIRGINIA  213 

SOUK-  .u'rm  discovered  in  the  mines  of  Thought 

To  tell  that  they  have  lived,  and  have  not  lived  for  naught. 

"But  why  not,"  some  one  seems  to  say, 

"O  Poet!  with  your  verse  infuse 
The  humor  of  a  livelier  lay, 

Or  woo  a  merrier  Mu>>  ' 
Why  turn  in  this  dejected  mood 
From  platitude  to  platitude, 
Content  on  trite  moralities  to  dwell, 
So  often  drily  taught  and  only  learned  too  well? 

"Need  poet  by  what  themes  be  told 
The  passing  hour  is  best  beguiled? 
The  Graces  never  yet  grew  old, 

And  Love  remains  a  child ;  * 
And  woman's  neck  is  still  as  white 
A>  Helen's,  and  her  eyes  as  bright: 
And  'iieath  her  smile  the  Future's  shadowy  scope 
In  sudden  glow  assumes  the  radiant  hues  of  Hope." 

The  timely  hint  I  fain  would  heed, 

That  sadness  is  not  Wisdom's  plan, 
And  scatter  from  the  sportive  reed 

The  jocund  notes  of  Pan; 
And  yet  I  do  but  strive  in  vain 
Some  mirth  to  mingle  with  my  strain: 
The  lighter  fancies  bring  not  their  relief, 
The  pensive  humor  holds  and  deepens  into  grief. 

For,  brothers,  while  your  ranks  1  view, 
Another  throng,  methinks,  I  see, 

*  Les  Amours  sont  toujours  enfans, 
Et  les  Graces  sont  de  tout  age. 


214  UNIVERSITY  OF  VIRGINIA 

And  read  the  Psalmist's  line  anew 
The  Dead  alone  are  free! 

Some  who  departed  ere  the  flame 

Of  conquest  and  of  ruin  came, 
And  some  who  passed  through  battle's  fiercest  fire 
Beyond  all  earthly  wrong,  and  struggle,  and  desire. 

And  death  hath  to  their  presence  lent 

A  grace  the  living  cannot  reach, 
Their  silence  is  more  eloquent 

Than  our  imperfect  speech — 
The  calm  of  an  eternal  rest 
Is  in  each  countenance  exprest; 
I  mark  the  halo  round  each  shining  head, 
And  feel  we  are  less  great,  less  noble,  than  the  Dead. 

Their  praise  demands  a  loftier  verse: 

Ah,  what  avails  the  feeble  line 
Thy  merit,  Thornton !  to  rehearse; 

Or,  gifted  Coleman!  thine? 
The  orator  whose  deeds  eclipse 
The  memory  of  his  fluent  lips — 
The  gentle  scholar  and  the  faithful  friend, 
Who  Falkland's  knighthood  seemed  with  Arnold's  lore  to 
blend. 

While  here  our  sorrowing  Mother  keeps 

His  loss  as  her  peculiar  pain, 
For  yet  another  child  she  weeps 

Who  came  not  back  again — 
Whose  brief  career  on  earth  would  seem 
A  tender  but  unfinished  theme — • 
Maupin,  translated  to  the  silent  shore, 
Robed  with  immortal  youth,  and  fair  forevermore. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  VIRGINIA  215 

What  helps  it  now  that  I  should  seek 
Of  Newton's  cherished  worth  to  tell; 
( )f  Fairfax,  peerless  name !  to  speak, 

Among  the  first   who  fell; 
Of  Brown  to  sing,  whose  diamond  star 
Of  death  in  battle  shines  afar; 
To  call  up  Latane's  benignant  shade, 
I'pon  whose  early  grave  some  few  poor  wreaths  I  laid  ? 

The  fame  how  shall  my  rhyme  declare 

Of  him,  with  every  virtue  sealed, 
Who  glorious  made  the  name  I  bear, 

On  Shiloh's  crimson  field; 
Of  Terrell,  Paxton,  Rives,  who  died 
Upborne  on  triumph's  transient  tide; 
Of  Cunningham,  bewailed  with  costliest  tears, 
And  Harrison,  cut  down  in  manhood's  opening  years? 

What  pen,  though  dipped  in  morning  skies, 

What  sweetest  song  of  living  praise, 
The  unavailing  sacrifice 

Shall  mark  to  coming  days, 
Of  gallant  Pegram,  loved,  deplored, 
A  saintly  life,  a  stainless  sword — 
The  young  Marcellus  of  the  falling  state, 
A  Virgil's  lay  alone  might  fitly  celebrate. 

Nor  yet  less  dearly  mourned  are  they, 

Faithful  in  council  and  in  camp, 
Who  perished  in  the  slow  decay 

Of  life's  expiring  lamp: 
I  think  of  Tucker's  features  lit 
With  music,  tenderness,  and  wit; 


216  UNIVERSITY  OF  VIRGINIA 

Of  Heath's  fine  head  with  learning's  laurel  decked, 
And  Randolph's  brow  where  sat  ancestral  intellect. 

Rest,  heroes,  rest  from  toil  and  care, 
By  mountain  slope  or  ocean's  tides, 
Or  deep  in  that  rich  Valley  where 
Old  Stonewall's  ghost  still  rides: 
Albeit  no  memorial  stone 
May  make  your  names  and  valor  known, 
There  fairest  maidens  scatter  blooms  around, 
And  with  perennial  love  your  quiet  graves  are  crowned. 

Guard  well,  ye  mountains,  their  repose; 
Chaunt,  ocean,  chaunt  their  requiem; 
From  you  whate'er  of  greatness  flows 

Was  imaged  forth  in  them; 
And  all  on  earth  that's  fair  and  bright, 
Of  dearer  charm  or  larger  light, 
Shall  still  keep  fresh  the  memory  of  the -brave, 
While  Alleghany  stands,  or  rolls  th'  Atlantic  wave. 

Their  varied  lives  agree  in  one 

The  sacred  mandate  to  renew — 
What  still  your  hands  find  to  be  done 

With  all  your  might  to  do: 
They  teach  that  not  till  we  have  striven 
With  all  the  strength  that  God  has  given 
Can  we  relinquish  the  appointed  task, 
And  on  our  feeble  work  His  blessing  dare  to  ask. 

An  exile  from  my  place  of  birth, 

I  bear,  in  antique  urn  enshrined, 
No  handful  of  my  native  earth 

To  keep  the  spot  in  mind: 


UNIVERSITY  OF  VIRGINIA  217 

All  that  thou  wast,  that  now  thou  art, 

I  shrine,  Virginia!  in  iny  heart; 
Thy  Kills,  thy  plains,  thy  rushing  streams  I  see 
Upon  whatever  soil  my  feet  may  chance  to  be. 

Her  future  what  though  clouds  enfold, — 
Brave  hands  the  waste  may  renovate, 
And  make  her  greater  than  of  old, 
Aye,  something  more  than  great. 
In  labor,  not  in  listlessness, 
Lies  hid  the  secret  of  success; 
And  now,  as  ever,  empire's  fruitful  seeds, 
Bearing  an  hundredfold,  are  homely,  toilsome  dec. Is. 

\Vise  Nature  reconstructs  her  realm 

In  beauty  from  her  primal  springs: 
The  bluebird  twitters  in  the  elm, 
The  corn  still  laughs  and  sings; 
Heaven  showers  upon  the  thirsty  plain 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain, 
And  Plenty  waits  with  ever  liberal  hand 
Her  unexhausted  gifts  to  pour  upon  the  laud. 

And,  casting  off  unwise  regrets, 

We  yet  may  hope  that  time  shall  prove 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  bayonets, 

And  force  less  strong  than  love: 
Wr  know  that  order  shall  appr;ir 
When  God  has  made  his  purpose  clear; 
The  darkest  riddles  shall  be  understood, 
And  all  the  perfect  world  shall  in  His  sight  be  good ! 


THE  BARBER  BOY41 

Now  see  the  quickly  closing  year 
Brings  joyous  days  of  festive  cheer, 
When  fatter  dinners  crown  the  board, 
And  larders  are  with  turkeys  stored, 
The  fire  burns  brighter  on  the  hearth, 
The  sagest  are  inclined  to  mirth, 
And  every  open  house  can  show 
The  holly  and  the  mistletoe. 

Oh,  happy  time  for  boys  and  girls, 
(Their  mothers'  dearest,  fairest  pearls) 
Who  dream  of  dolls  and  candy  too, 
And  only  wake  to  find  it  true, 
For  Santa  Claus,  their  patron  saint, 
With  whom  ye  are  full  well  acquaint, 
Is  now  upon  his  yearly  track 
And  down  the  chimney  brings  his  pack. 

At  such  a  time  assistance  lend 
To  one  who  proves  a  constant  friend 
And  every  generous  purse  employ 
To  recollect  the  barber  boy. 
A  handsome  head — a  whisker  trim, 
A  well-brushed  coat  you  owe  to  him. 
By  razor  keen  with  ease  and  grace 
He  smoothes  your  rough  and  hairy  face, 
And  shaves  you  still  with  your  consent- 
No  monthly  rate  of  three  per  cent! 

For  patience,  industry  and  thrift, 
He  humbly  asks  a  "Christmas  gift," 
That  he  may  join  in  all  the  fun, 
Which  may  in  holidays  be  done, 
To  mingle  with  the  happy  crowd, 
And  pop  his  Chinese  crackers  loud. 
Such  sportive  scenes  you  know  are  rare, 
As  "Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year." 
218 


TRANSLATIONS 

"CARCASSONNE" 

[NADAUD] 

I'M  growing  old,  I've  sixty  years, 

I've  labored  all  my  life  in  vain; 
In  all  that  time  of  hopes  and  fears 

I've  failed  my  dearest  wish  to  gain. 
I  see  full  well  that  here  below 

Bliss  unalloyed  there  is  for  none, 
My  prayer  will  ne'er  fulfillment  know, 

I  never  have  seen  Carcassonne ! 

I  never  have  seen  Carcassonne ! 

You  see  the  city  from  the  hill, 

It  lies  beyond  the  mountains  blue, 
And  yet  to  reach  it  one  must  still 

Five  long  and  weary  leagues  pursue. 
And  to  return  as  many  more. 

Ah!  had  the  vintage  plenteous  grown, 
The  grape  withheld  its  yellow  store, 

I  shall  not  look  on  Carcassonne ! 

I  shall  not  look  on  Carcassonne ! 

They  tell  me  every  day  is  there 

Not  more  nor  less  than  Sunday  gay, 

In  shining  robes  and  garments  fair, 
The  people  walk  upon  their  way; 

One  gazes  there  on  castle  walls 
As  grand  as  those  of  Babylon, 
219 


220  "CARCASSONNE" 

A  bishop  and  two  generals — 

I  do  not  know  fair  Carcassonne ! 
I  do  not  know  fair  Carcassonne ! 

The  vicar's  right;  he  says  that  we 
Are  ever  wayward,  weak  and  blind; 

He  tells  us  in  his  homily 
Ambition  ruins  all  mankind; 

Yet  could  I  there  two  days  have  spent, 
While  still  the  autumn  sweetly  shone, 

Ah,  me !  I  might  have  died  content 
When  I  had  looked  on  Carcassonne, 
When  I  had  looked  on  Carcassonne! 

Thy  pardon,  Father,  I  beseech, 

In  this,  my  prayer,  if  I  offend, 
One  something  sees  beyond  his  reach 

From  childhood  to  his  journey's  end; 
My  wife,  our  little  boy,  Aignan, 

Have  traveled  even  to  Narbonne; 
My  grandchild  has  seen  Perpignan, 

And  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne ! 

And  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne! 

So  crooned  one  day,  close  by  Limoux, 
A  peasant,  double  bent  with  age; 

"Rise  up,  my  friend!"  cried  I;  "with  you 
I'll  go  upon  this  pilgrimage." 

We  left  next  morning  his  abode, 

But  (heaven  forgive  him)  half  way  on 

The  old  man  died  upon  the  road; 
He  never  gazed  on  Carcassonne — 
Each  mortal  has  his  Carcassonne! 


THE  GARRET 

[BERANGER] 

THE  Asylum  once  more  I  behold,  where  my  youth 

Learned  the  lessons  to  Poverty's  self  that  belong — 
I  was  twenty!     I  had  a  fond  mistress,  forsooth, 

A  few  trusty  friends,  and  a  liking  for  song. 
The  world  then  I  braved,  both  its  wits  and  wights, 

With  no  thought  of  my  future — but  strong  in  my  May 
Light,  joyous  I  climbed  up  the  stairway  six  flights, 

Oh !  Life  in  a  garret  at  twenty  is  gay ! 

'Tis  a  garret !  that  fact  I  wish  none  to  forget ! 

There  once  stood  my  bed — hard  and  shabby  withal; 
My  table  stood  there !  and  I  find  there  are  yet 

In  charcoal  some  fragments  of  verse  on  the  wall. 
Come  back !    O  ye  joys  of  Life's  beautiful  dawn ! 

Which  Time  with  a  flap  of  his  wing  drove  away ! 
How  often  for  you  has  my  watch  been  in  pawn ! 

Oh !     Life  in  a  garret  at  twenty  is  gay ! 

Lisette  above  all  should  appear  to  our  view, 

Light,  joyous,  with  freshly  trimmed  hat  as  of  yore, 
At  the  window  her  hand  has  already,  in  lieu 

Of  a  curtain,  suspended  the  shawl  that  she  wore; 
My  bed,  too,  is  prettily  decked  with  her  dress, 

Its  folds  loose  and  flowing.     Love,  spare  them,  I  pray. 
Who  paid  for  it  all  I  have  heard,  I  confess, 

Oh !    Life  in  a  garret  at  twenty  is  gay ! 
221 


222  THE  GARRET 

At  table  one  day,  when  abundant  the  cheer, 

And  the  voices  of  my  comrades  in  chorus  rang  high, 
A  shout  of  rejoicing  mounts  up  even  here, 

"At  Marengo  Napoleon  is  victor,"  they  cry ! 
Hark,  the  thunder  of  guns!  a  new  stave  loudly  rings; 

As  to  deeds  so  resplendent  our  homage  we  pay; 
Never !  never !  shall  France  be  invaded  by  Kings ! 

Oh !    Life  in  a  garret  at  twenty  is  gay ! 

Let  us  go !  for  my  reason  is  drunk,  as  with  wine ! 

How  distant  those  days  so  regretted  appear. 
What  is  Life  me  to  live  I  would  gladly  resign 

For  one  month  such  as  Heaven  allotted  me  here; 
Of  Glory,  Love,  Pleasure  and  Folly  to  dream — 

The  whole  of  existence  to  spend  in  a  day, 
With  hope  to  illumine  that  day  with  her  beam — 

Oh !    Life  in  a  garret  at  twenty  is  gay ! 


WHERE? 

[HEINE] 

WHERE  shall  yet  the  wanderer  jaded 

In  the  grave  at  last  recline? 
In  the  South,  by  palm  trees  shaded? 

Under  lindens  by  the  Rhine? 

Shall  I  in  some  desert  sterile 
Be  entombed  by  foreign  hands? 

Shall  I  sleep  beyond  life's  peril, 
By  some  seacoast  in  the  sands? 

Well !     God's  heaven  will  shine  as  brightly 
There  as  here,  around  my  bed, 

And  the  stars,  for  death-lamps,  nightly 
Shall  be  hung  above  my  head. 


2*3 


THE  KING  OF  TIPSY-LAND42 

[BERANGER] 

THERE  was  a  king  of  Tipsy-land, 

Whom  history  doth  not  name; 
At  noon  he  rose,  at  night  lie  slept, 

Nor  cared  a  fig  for  fame. 
With  Joan,  at  sunset,  he  lay  down, 
A  cotton  night-cap  for  his  crown, 

Hey !  ding  a  ding !  ho !  ding  a  ding ! 

Ah !  what  a  jolly  little  king 

Was  he ! 

His  palace  it  was  built  of  straw, 

Four  meals  a  day  he  ate: 
And,  on  a  donkey,  through  his  realm 

He  rode  in  royal  state, 
His  jovial  heart  ne'er  felt  alarm, 
With  Tray  behind  he  feared  no  harm — 

Hey !  ding  a  ding !  ho !  ding  a  ding ! 

Ah!  what  a  jolly  little  king 

Was  he! 

> 

He  had  no  costly  appetite, 

Except  the  love  of  wine; 
But,  while  he  makes  his  subjects  blest, 
A  monarch  still  must  dine. 
224 


THE   KING   OF  TIPSY-LAND  225 

!!<•  levied  toll  on  every  cask, 
Nor  wanted  help  to  drain  his  flask — 
Hey !  ding  a  ding !  ho !  ding  a  ding  ! 

Ah  !  uliat   n  jolly  little  king 

\V.,s  he! 


Both  maid  and  matron   \\eleomed  him 

WherrYr  he  chanced   to  call: 
The  children  learned  to  bless  his  name — 

The  father  of  them  all. 
No  war  filled  parents'  hearts  with  grief, 
The  conscripts  met  to  shoot  for  beef 

Hey!  ding  a  ding.!  ho!  ding  a  ding! 

Ah  !  \\hut   a  jolly  little  king 

Was  he! 

He  ne'er  was  known  o'er  neighbors'  lands 

To  streteh  his  royal  paw: 
A  pattern  he  for  potentates, 

For  pleasure  was  his  law. 
Till  with  his  sires  he  went  to  sleep 
His  people  had  no  cause  to  weep — 

Hey!  ding  a  ding!  ho!  ding  a  ding! 

Ah  !  uhat  a  jolly  little  king 

Wai  he! 

The  portraits  of  this  worthy  prince 

Are  kept  with  pious  care; 
And  country  taverns  prosper  still 

Where  he  swings  in  the  air. 


226  THE  KING  OF  TIPSY-LAND 

On  holydays,  the  tippling  crowd 
Will  often  chorus  long  and  loud, 

Hey !  ding  a  ding !  ho !  ding  a  ding ! 

Ah !  what  a  jolly  little  king 

Was  he! 


APPENDIX 


I.    THOMPSON'S   COLLEGE  VERSES 

ALL  of  the  following  poems  except  Verses  of  a  Collegiate 
Historian  appeared  in  The  Collegian,  a  magazine  conducted 
by  a  committee  elected  by  the  students  of  the  University 
of  Virginia  and  published  from  October,  1839,  until  June, 
1842.  All  but  two  of  the  pieces  were  published  in  1841.  The 
authorship  of  The  Hour  of  Separation  is  attested  by  the  poet's 
initials,  and  the  poem  is  accepted  as  his.  Four  poems  in 
the  group  are  signed  T.,  and  one  "  Straws."  There  are  reasons 
for  accepting  them  but  the  evidence  is  not  quite  conclusive. 


AUTUMN 

Autumn  again  is  here.     Its  nodding  fields 
Of  grain — the  "yellow  leaf"  which  now  assumes 
Its  loveliest  hue,  and  leaves  reluctantly 
The  parent  tree — the  sportive  rustling  wind 
Breathing  its  soft  and  melancholy  tune 
Through  the  decaying  foliage — are  each  and  all 
Its  attributes.     And  truly  they  attest, 
With  magic  eloquence,  the  varied  change 
Of  things  below.     Man's  destiny  is  writ 
In  the  huge  tome  of  nature — he  may  go 
Abroad,  and  read  it  with  attentive  soul 
Until,  with  inspiration  deeply  fraught, 
He  feels  his  heart  is  purified  anew. 
Yet  Autumn  wakens  many  mournful  thoughts, 
And  frequently,  when  musing  on  the  theme, 
My  spirit  all  subdued  by  sad  restraints — 
I've  wished,  with  some  fine  poet  I  have  read, 
"I  with  green  summer  like  a  leaf  might  die." 
227 


228  APPENDIX 


VERSES  OF  A  COLLEGIATE  HISTORIAN 

A  few  days  since,  in  looking  over  an  old  Note  Book,  that 
contained  many  scraps  from  the  wayward  fancy  of  its  owner, 
I  came  across  the  following  verses — a  record  of  the  poetic 
talent  of  some  former  student.  There  is  much  spirit  and 
humor  in  them,  and  I  hope  the  compliments  they  are  destined 
to  receive  will  reconcile  the  author  to  then-  publication,  if 
perchance  they  ever  meet  his  eye. 

End  at  last!     Gloria  in  Excelsis!  ! 

Eight  minutes  of  eleven  o'clock,  Jan.  30th,  1841. 

Farewell !  farewell  to  thee,  old  Latin  History ! 

(Thus  warbled  a  student,  who  once  read  it  through.) 
Thou  art  so  profoundly  enveloped  in  mystery 

That  with  feelings  of  pleasure  I  bid  you  adieu. 

Old  Niebuhr  no  longer  shall  act  as  my  teacher. 

Researches  like  his  are  too  boring  for  me, 
For  though  he  has  tales  of  "poetical  nature," 

Yet  poetry  in  them  I  never  could  see. 

"The  Library  for  the  diffusion  of  knowledge" — 
To  give  my  opinion — a  humbug  I'll  call. 

I  hope  that  it  soon  will  be  kicked  out  of  College 
"Etruscans,"  "Pelasgi,"  "Venetians"  and  all. 

Old  Rome's  institutions,  religious  and  civil, 
I  leave  with  emotion  unmixed  with  regret. 

And  now  Latin  History  may  go  to  the  d — 1 
But  the  troubles  it  cost  me  I'll  never  forget. 


THE  INEBRIATE 

Go  look  upon  the  drunkard,  with  his  wild  unmeaning  eye 
Which  flashed  of  yore  with  brilliancy  and  manly  ardour  high, 
The  Upas  tree  of  sorrow  on  his  brow  has  cast  a  blight, 
His  virtues  are  but  "embers  of  a  flame  which  once  was 
bright." 


APPENDIX  229 

Oh,  think  of  peace  and  virtue  lost  forever  to  his  soul, 
And  curses  springing  every  one  from  out  the  "festive  6o/r/," 
Oh,  think  of  happiness  and  pride,  from  which  his  spirit  fell 
To  revel  in  the  splendours  of  a  deep,  and  lurid  hell. 

In  infancy  when  that  fair  face  was  yet  untouched  of  pain, 
A  mother's  prayer  had  lifted  up  to  God  a  fervent  strain, 
Amid  the  changeful  scenes  of  life  to  guide  his  steps  aright, 
Till  Death's  command  should  cull  him  to  "the  land  of  pure 
delight." 

The  willows  o'er  that  mother's  tomb  in  solemn  stillness  wave, 
The  father's  silvery  locks  have  gone  in  sorrow  to  the  grave, 
What  made  their  son  this  loathsome  thing?  this  thing  so 

much  abhorred? 
I  answer — 'twas  the   "glasses"   bright,   which   "sparkle  on 

the  board" 

Reader,  I  would  conjure  you  now,  by  all  you  hold  most  dear, 
Your  hopes  of  future  happiness,  and  glory's  bright  career, 
To  pause — when  you  the  goblet  lift — its  horrors  there  re 
view, 
Then  dash  the  burning  draught  away,  and  live  your  life  anew. 


DESPONDENCY 

Oh !  there  are  times  when  sorrows  tinge  the  tablet  of  the 

soul, 
And  o'er  it  naught  but  blasted  hopes  and  gloomy  visions 

roll, 
When  all  that  passes  'round  us  and  life's  brightest  prospects 

seem 
The  relic  of  a  thing  that's  gone !  the  shadow  of  a  dream ! 

The  smiling  face  of  nature — the  city's  bustling  mart, 
Nor  Fashion's  glittering  pageantry  can  then  engage  the  heart, 
Our  destiny  seems  guided  by  some  overruling  fate, 
And  no  "fair  spirit"  hovers  near  «mr  woes  to  mitigate. 


230  APPENDIX 

Ambition  then  no  longer  seeks  our  bosoms  to  inflame 
With  ardent  aspirations  and  with  thrilling  thirst  for  fame. 
We  only  wish  our  troubles  o'er  in  this  our  earthly  lot, 
To  sink  into  Oblivion's  stream,  forgetting  and  forgot. 

Yet  even  then  if  thoughts  of  home,  that  dearest  place  on 

earth, 
Remind  us  of  our  boyish  days,  our  childhood's  gladsome 

mirth, 

The  memory  of  a  sister's  smile,  a  mother's  holy  love, 
Will  point  us  to  a  purer  and  a  brighter  sphere  above. 


RETROSPECTION 

When  looking  back  on  life's  career, 

Alternately,  with  smile  and  tear, 

"Fond  memory"  discloses  things 

Which,  flown  on  Time's  swift  mystic  wings, 

Are  long  forgotten  now — 
Which  either  serve  to  glad  our  breast, 
And  lull  our  anxious  cares  to  rest, 

Or  darken  up  our  brow. 
But  when  its  great  and  magic  power 
Gives  us  a  "self -approving  hour," 

How  sweet  the  joy  it  brings; 
For  o'er  those  acts  we  now  approve 
Which  savour  of  the  life  above — 

It  ever  gently  flings 
A  purer  and  a  lovelier  cast, 
Whose  lustre  cannot  be  surpassed. 


LINES 

ON   THE   DEATH    OF   GENERAL   WILLIAM   HENRY    HARRISON, 
PRESIDENT   OF   THE   UNITED    STATES 

A  great  one  is  gone !     Lo,  the  loud  lamentation ! 

Which  heralds  the  loss  of  the  noble  and  brave, 
Rings  long  o'er  the  darkened  and  desolate  nation, 

And  millions  of  freemen  weep  over  his  grave. 


APPENDIX  231 

A  few  weeks  ago,  and  his  praises  resounded 

From  the  tall  Rocky  Mount  to  the  high  rolling  surge, 

But  now  his  existence  on  earth  has  been  bounded, 
And  lo !  the  whole  country  is  chanting  his  dirge ! 

Ye  mortals!  behold  what  a  lesson  it  teaches — 

"What  shadows  we  are,  and  what  shadows  pursue"- 

Death's  arrow,  with  unerring  certainty,  reaches 
The  weak  and  the  mighty,  the  false  and  the  true. 

Although  the  cold  tomb  his  frail  body  encloses, 
His  spirit  has  burst  from  beneath  the  dark  sod; 

And,  in  the  abode  of  the  blest  now  reposes 

In  peace  with  his  Maker — his  Father — his  God. 


THE  HOUR  OF  SEPARATION 

Oh !  this  is  a  time  of  rejoicing  and  sadness, 

Our  bosoms  are  rife  with  delight  and  regret; 
One  moment  our  faces  are  beaming  with  gladness, 

Another  with  tears  fast  and  gushing  are  wet. 
When  we  think  of  the  homes  we  are  shortly  to  visit, 

Rejoicing  fast  chases  our  sorrow  away, 
But  to  part  with  our  classmates  is  torture  exquisite 

Then  Gaiety  even  forgets  to  be  gay. 

Farewell  to  thee,  Horace!     Farewell  to  thee,  Homer! 

With  your  spirits  we  now  can  no  longer  commune, 
To  those  who  have  failed  to  obtain  a  diploma 

To  see  you  next  session  will  surely  be  soon. 
Farewell  to  the  room,  where  so  often  we've  listened 

To  eloquence  breathing  of  angles  and  cubes, 
Of  acids,  and  gases,  and  sunbeams  that  glistened, 

And  liquids  eccentric  that  rise  up  in  tubes. 

Adieu  to  the  Doctor,  remembered  in  story, 
Who  woke  us  from  happy  oblivion  of  cure. 

Though  vacation  will  see  him  "alone  in  his  glory," 
He'll  visit  the  rooms  every  morn  as  they  are, 


232  APPENDIX 

And  finding  no  victims  in  slumber  reposing, 
As  he  peeps  in  his  head  thro'  the  opening  door 

A  tear  fills  his  eye  as,  it  hurriedly  closing, 
He  walks  on  as  quick  and  as  grave  as  before. 

The  clock,  too,  then  in  his  exclusive  dominion, 

His  watch  so  erratic  will  have  to  obey, 
And  it  is  my  unbiased  and  candid  opinion 

He'll  alter  it  every  half-hour  in  the  day, 
For  the  hands  run  a  race  (and  the  small  one's  the  winner) 

To  get  up  early  for  breakfast  you  know, 
But  when  comes  the  time  set  apart  for  our  dinner, 

I  never  saw  things  so  infernally  slow. 

And  now  all  is  over;  reluctantly  leaving, 

With  rubicund  faces,  and  optics  all  wet, 
We  part  with  each  other,  all  fondly  receiving 

The  grasp  of  affection,  the  tear  of  regret. 
May  our  course  in  life's  desert  be  far  from  the  wrong 

In  joy  or  affliction,  in  sunshine  or  rain, 
And  "may  Providence  bear  us  uninjured  along 

Nor  scatter  our  paths  with  repentance  and  pain." 


II.    FUGITIVE   THOMPSONIANA 
1.    THE  STOWE  EPIGRAM 

The  following  was  a  part  of  Thompson's  contribution  to 
the  Editor's  Table  of  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger  for 
January,  1853: 

The  following  epigram  we  think  has  point — the  most  im 
portant  feature  in  such  compositions  from  the  time  of  Mar 
tial  down  to  our  own  day.  But  let  the  reader,  by  all  means, 
judge  for  himself: 

When  Latin  I  studied,  my  Ains worth  in  hand, 
I  answered  my  teacher  that  Sto  meant  to  stand. 
But  if  asked  I  should  now  give  another  reply, 
For  Stowe  means,  beyond  any  cavil,  to  lie. 


APPENDIX  233 


2.    POMPONNETTE 

These  lines,  French  and  English,  were  written,  in  Thomp 
son's  hand,  on  an  envelope  in  the  possession  of  his  niece. 
Miss  Lily  Quarles,  of  Petersburg,  Va.: 

II  a  conduit  Pomponnette 

Chez  Vachette, 
Dans  le  cabinet  vingt-deux, 
Et,  la,  meme  avant  le  bisque, 

II  se  risque 
A  lui  declarer  ses  feux. 

He  escorted  Pomponnette 
To  the  cafe  of  Vachette, 

In  number  twenty- two; 
And  before  the  soup  he  there 
Ventured  boldly  to  declare 

His  passion  warm  and  true. 


3.    ROGER  BONTEMPS 

He  wrote  in  the  Editor's  Table  for  August,   1857: 

The  nearest  approach  to  a  religious  sentiment  which  we 
can  recall  in  Beranger  occurs  in  the  well  known  song  of  Roger 
Bontemps,  and  this  is  as  French  as  possible — • 

Dieu  au  ciel:  je  me  fie, 

Mon  Pere,  a  ta  bonte; 
De  ma  philosophic 

Pardonne  la  gaite: 
Que  ma  saison  derniere 

Soit  encore  un  printemps; 
Eh  gai !  c'est  la  priere 

Du  gros  Roger  Bontemps — 

which  we  venture  to  translate,  a  little  less  freely  than 
Thackeray,  and  a  little  less  faithfully  than  Mr.  Young,  as 
follows — 


234  APPENDIX 

I  trust  to  thy  goodness,  my  Father  in  Heaven. 
Let  my  philosophy's  mirth  be  forgiven: 
Let  my  last  season  as  springtime  be  gay — 
Fat  Roger  Bontemps  forever  will  pray. 


4.    BERANGER  AND  LAMARTINE 

In  the  same  department  of  The  Messenger  for  September, 
1857,  Thompson  inserted  these  jeux  d' esprit: 

Among  the  many  reminiscences  of  Beranger  which  have 
been  called  up  by  his  recent  death  is  a  very  graceful  little 
epigram  written  underneath  a  stanza  of  Lamartine  in  the 
album  of  a  lady  of  Marseilles.  The  poet  of  sentiment  had 
inscribed  his  name  therein  with  these  lines: 

Dans  ce  cimitiere  de  gloire 

Vous  voulez  ma  cendre;  a  quoi  bon? 

Pendant  que  j'inscris  ma  memoire 
Le  temps  pulverise  mon  nom — 

of  which  this  must  stand  for  an  English  equivalent,  as  well 
as  we  can  give  it: 

In  this  burial  place  of  glory 

You  wish  my  ashes;  empty  fame! 

While  I  write  therein  my  story 
Time  shall  pulverize  my  name. 

The  poet  of  humor  having  been  requested  to  adorn  the 
album  with  his  autograph,  seized  the  pen  and  threw  off  these 
happy  and  ingenious  supplementary  rhymes  (what  would 
not  the  leaf  which  contains  the  two  memorials  sell  for,  at 
an  auction  of  autographs  !) : 

Si  le  temps,  pour  marquer  jusqu'  oil  va  son  empire, 
Pulverise  en  effet  le  beau  nom  que  voila, 

Qu'il  daigne  sur  les  vers  que  j'ose  encore  ecrire 
Jeter  un  peu  de  cette  poudre  la — 


APPENDIX  235 

for  which  the  following  paraphrase  of  our  own  is,  we  fear, 
but  an  awkward  substitute: 

Should  Time,  just  to  show  us  the  range  of  his  might, 
Crush,  indeed,  to  a  powder  that  glorious  name, 

Let  him  deign,  on  the  verses  I  too  dare  to  write, 
Of  that  powder  to  sprinkle  a  bit  of  the  same. 


5.    TO  FANNY 

THOMPSON'S  FIRST  POEM,  WRITTEN  AT  13  (IN  1836) 

Dear  lady,  O,  the  task  is  mine 

To  write  in  your  album  a  line 

Or  two,  if  that  would  please  you  more; 

And  if  I  could,  I'd  write  a  score. 

Dear  Fanny,  such  a  heavy  task 
Of  you  I'm  sure  I'd  never  ask, 
For  I  declare  it's  rather  hard 
To  wake  my  sleepy,  slumbering  bard. 

But  as  I've  written  a  line  or  two 
I  think  I'll  try  to  make  it  do. 
Pray  do  not  treat  it  with  contempt — 
Remember  'tis  my  first  attempt. 


G.    THE  SOUTHERN  LYRE 

"In  another  part  of  the  present  issue  of  the  Illustrated 
News,"  says  an  editorial  note  in  the  number  for  July  4,  1863, 
"the  reader  will  find  a  finely-wrought  poem  entitled  T 'fie 
Southern  Lyre,  in  which  one  of  the  most  graceful  and  imagina 
tive  of  the  poets  of  our  sunny  land  sings  the  praises  of  his 
brother  minstrels."  In  this  poetic  album  of  Southern  poets 
— which  is  the  work  of  Paul  H.  Hayne — the  editor  of  the 
Illustrated  Nnvs  is  included : 


236  APPENDIX 

There,  Thompson!  with  his  scholar's  mien, 
His  front  so  graceful  and  serene, 
Walks  calmly  o'er  the  fairy  scene; 

His  own — what  e'er  his  Muse's  part — 
Ease,  learning,  tenderness  and  art — 
Bright  fusion  of  the  mind  and  heart. 

Thompson  paid  in  kind.  Quoting  further  from  his  editorial : 
"  There  is  one  figure  wanting  surely  [in  the  portraits  in  The 
Southern  Lyre],  as  all  will  concede — that  of  the  gifted  young 
bard  himself,  and  we  beg  to  supply  it,  if  a  hand  so  unskilful 
as  our  own  may  be  permitted  to  strike  the  strings  of  his  harp 
in  the  same  measure  that  he  has  chosen: 

"And  Hayne,  the  Petrarch  of  the  land, 
Joins  modestly  the  radiant  band, 
The  golden  lyre  held  in  his  hand — 

"The  lyre  from  whose  divinest  strings 
With  wondrous  melody  he  flings 
The  tenderest  imaginings — 

"Or  strikes  a  lofty  war-like  strain, 
A  lyric  of  the  battle-plain: 
All  honor  to  the  poet  Hayne!" 


in.  NOTES 

THE  BURIAL  OF  LATANE,  P.  4 

1  The  following  prefaced  the  poem  as  printed  in  The  Messenger  : 
"The  next  squadron  moved  to  the  front  under  the  lamented  Cap 
tain  Latan£,  making  a  most  brilliant  and  successful  charge  with 
drawn  sabres  upon  the  enemy's  picked  ground,  and  after  a  hotly- 
contested  hand-to-hand  conflict,  put  him  to  flight,  but  not  until 
the  gallant  captain  had  sealed  his  devotion  to  his  native  soil  with  his 
blood." — Official  report  of  the  Pamunkey  expedition  by  General  J.  E.  B. 
Stuart,  C.  S.  A. 

"Lieutenant  Latan6  carried  his  brother's  dead  body  to  Mrs. 
Brockenbrough's  plantation,  an  hour  or  two  after  his  death.  On  this 
sad  and  lonely  errand  he  met  a  party  of  Yankees,  who  followed  him 
to  Mrs.  Brockenbrough's  gate,  and  stopping  there,  told  him  that  as 
soon  as  he  had  placed  his  brother's  body  in  friendly  hands,  he  must 
surrender  himself  prisoner.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Brockenbrough  sent  for  an 
Episcopal  clergyman  to  perform  the  funeral  ceremonies,  but  the 
enemy  would  not  permit  him  to  pass.  .  .  .  Then,  with  a  few  other 
ladies,  a  fair-haired  little  girl,  her  apron  filled  with  white  flowers,  and 
a  few  faithful  slaves  who  stood  reverently  near,  a  pious  Virginia 
matron  read  the  solemn  and  beautiful  burial  service  over  the  cold, 
still  form  of  one  of  the  noblest  gentlemen  and  most  intrepid  officers 
in  the  Confederate  Army.  She  watched  the  clods,  heaped  upon  the 
coffin-lid,  then  sinking  on  her  knees,  in  sight  and  hearing  of  the  foe, 
she  committed  his  soul's  welfare,  and  the  stricken  hearts  he  had 
left  behind  him,  to  the  mercy  of  the  All-Father." 

— Extract  from  private  letter. 

2  By  J.  R.  T.*     The  beautiful  ima^e  in  the  concluding  stanza  is 
borrowed  (and  some  of  the  language  versified)  from  the  eloquent 
remarks  of  Hon.  R.  M.  T.  Hunter  on  the  death  of  ex-President 
Tyler. 

•  These  initials  identify  notes  made  by  Thompson. 
237 


238  NOTES 

GENERAL  J.  E.  B.  STUART,  P.  8 

3  This  poem  was  said  to  have  been  written  on  the  day  of  Stuart's 
funeral,  at  St.  James  Episcopal  church,  Richmond,  Va.,  May  13, 
1864.     It  was  published  by  May  25,  1864.     In  an  expense  account 
for  a  part  of  that  year  Thompson  wrote:   "Sent  in  a  note  to  Con 
stance  Gary  [afterwards  Mrs.  Burton  Harrison]  on  the  25th  May,  for 
the  benefit  of  wounded  soldiers  at  Camp  Winder,  proceeds  of  a  poem 
on  the  'Obsequies  of  Stuart,'  which  note  was  never  received;  dona 
tion  therefore  lost,  but  amount  to  be  entered,  $50."     The  next  item 
is  an  interesting  commentary  on  the  price  paid  for  the  poem :  "3  June. 
Bottle  of  Brandy  $50." 

U.  S.  DISTRICT  COURT,  DISTRICT  No.  1,  UNDERWOOD,  J.,  P.  39 

4  John  Curtis  Underwood,  Federal  Judge  of  the  district  of  Virginia, 
was  detested  for  requiring  mixed  juries  and  for  other  official  acts 
during  the  reconstruction  period  following  the  Civil  War. 

VIRGINIA  FUIT,  P.  49 

5  Virginia  Fuit  was  printed  in  the  Old  Guard,  New  York,  in  May, 
1867,  unsigned.     As  Thompson's  work  it  was  included  in  The  South 
ern  Amaranth,  a  collection  of  poems  made  that  year  by  Miss  Sally 
A.  Brock,  of  Richmond.     In  1913,  a  new  edition  of  Daniel  Bedinger 
Lucas's  The  Land  Where  We  Were  Dreaming  was  published,  and 
Virginia  Fuit  was  included  among  the  poems  then  first  admitted  to 
Judge  Lucas's  volume.     It  was  inserted  on  the  authority  of  an  un 
signed  proof-sheet  found  among  his  papers  and  also  because  the 
editors  were  not  aware  that  it  had  ever  appeared  as  Mr.  Thomp 
son's.     Recently,  among  the  latter's  papers,  I  found  the  poem  in  his 
handwriting  in  the  form  (including  capital  and  italic  letters)  hi  which 
it  was  printed  in  The  Southern  Amaranth.    This  and  the  added  fact 
that  it  was  published  over  his  name  in  The  Southern  Amaranth  by 
one  of  Thompson's  Richmond  acquaintances  then  in  New  York  and 
doubtless  in  contact  with  the  poet,  who  was  there,  too,  go  far  to 
authenticate  the  verses  as  Thompson's  production. 


6ByJ.R.T. 


To  mould  a  mighty  State's  decree, 
and  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne. 

— TENNTSON,  In  Memoriam. 


NOTES  239 

DEDICATION  HYMN,  P.  54 

7  This  hymn  was  written  to  be  sung  at  the  dedication,  in  1848,  of 
the  First  Presbyterian  Church,  Richmond,  Va.,  of  which  Dr.  Moses 
D.  Hoge  was  minister.     It  was  included  among  the  hymns  which 
composed  the  hymn  book  of  the  Presbyterian  Church. 

LA  MORGUE,  P.  55 

8  By  J.  R.  T.:   Burke's  description  of  the  Dauphiness. 

PHILIP  PENDLETON  COOKE,  P.  60 

9  These  lines  were  written  in  1850,  the  year  Philip  Pendleton  Cooke 
died.     They  were  incorporated  in  Virginia  six  years  later. 

PROPOSED  SALE  OF  THE  NATURAL  BRIDGE,  P.  61 

10  By  J.  R.  T. :  See  Gibbon's  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire. 

While  stands  the  Coliseum  Rome  shall  stand; 

When  falls  the  Coliseum  Rome  shall  fall, 

And  when  Rome  falls,  the  world ! — Childe  Harold. 

To  INTEMPERANCE,  P.  63 

11  By  J.  R.  T.:   Attila,  our  readers  are  well  aware,  was  thus  desig 
nated  by  the  nations  whose  vineyards  he  uprooted  and  whose  blood 
he  poured  out  like  water.     "The  grass  never  grew  where  the  horse 
of  Attila  once  set  his  foot." 

12  Alexander  the  Great.     He  is  said  to  be  designated  by  some  of  the 
oriental  nations,  who  retain  a  tradition  of  his  bloody  victories,  by  a 
passage,  which,  literally  translated,  answers  that  in  the  text. 

13  Nero. 

14  We  have  the  authority  of  Holy  Writ  for  saying  that  Noah  was  a 
confirmed  sot. 

THE  VOICE  OF  RICHMOND  TO  PHINEAS  T.  BARNUM,  P.  68 
"ByJ.  R.T.: 

Song,  says  this  deserving  poet,* 
With  the  free  delights  to  dwell: 

'Twere  an  easy  thing  to  show  it, 
Yet  abides  with  slaves  as  well: 
•  "  For  «ong  baa  a  home  in  the  hearts  of  the  free."— Prue  Song. 


240  NOTES 

Where  are  heard  the  "Songs  of  Labor" 

Lightest  on  the  evening  air, 
With  the  banjo,  pipe  and  tabor, 

Gentle  Chirsty,  tell  us  where? 

16  By  J.  R.  T.:  Joyce  Heth,  the  nurse  of  Washington. 

JENNY  LIND,  P.  71 

17  The  following  was  the  preface  to  this  poem : 

The  old  year  has  gone  out  amid  the  usual  festivities  of  Christmas, 
and,  with  such  of  our  readers  as  reside  in  Richmond  and  Charleston, 
amid  the  yet  lingering  cadences  of  Jenny  Lind.  The  visit  of  the 
nightingale  to  Richmond  was  a  great  triumph  for  us.  We  claim  it 
all  as  our  own  work.  It  is  a  fact  about  which  there  can  be  no  dis 
pute,  that  our  fervent  invocations  to  the  enchantress  brought  her 
to  our  region  of  the  Union.  Otherwise  she  would  have  been  wafted 
to  Havana  by  steamer,  and  our  immediate  fellow-citizens  would  not 
have  heard  her.  Think  of  that  and  thank  us. 

Jenny's  visit  and  concert  have  already  been  sufficiently  touched 
upon  by  our  newspaper  friends,  but  we  cannot  resist  the  temptation 
to  say  something  of  it  ourselves.  We  shall  be  brief,  and,  like  the 
editor  of  the  Bunkum  Flag  Staff,  we  "ain't  goin'  to  give  way  to  our 
feelings,"  but  for  a  different  reason — because  we  cannot  find  words  to 
adequately  express  them.  So  much  by  way  of  preface  to  our  song 
of  rejoicing. 

"An,  FUTILE  THE  HOPE,"  P.  106 

18  The  reference  is  to  a  caustic  criticism,  in  the  London  Quarterly 
Review,  July,  1853,  of  the  Memoirs,  Journals  and  Correspondence  of 
Thomas  Moore,  edited  by  Lord  John  Russell. 

SOUVENIR  OF  ZURICH,  P.  112 

19  This  poem  and  The  Postilion  of  Linz,  Linden,  The  Rhine,  and  My 
Murray  grew  out  of  his  European  travels  in  1854,  in  company  with 
Henry  Winter  Davis  of  Maryland  and  Robert  E.  Randall  of  Penn 
sylvania,  to  whom  he  dedicated  his  book  Across  the  Atlantic. 

A  PICTURE,  P.  118 

20  Three  years  later,  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  in  an  instalment  of 
The  Autocrat  of  the  Breakfast  Table,  published  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly 
for  August,  1858,  used  the  same  similitude: 


NOTES  241 

"The  schoolmistress  came  down  with  a  rose  in  her  hair — a  fresh 
June  rose.  She  has  been  walking  early;  she  has  brought  back  two  others 
— one  on  each  cheek. 

"I  told  her  so,  in  some  such  pretty  phrase  as  I  could  muster  for 
the  occasion.  Those  two  blush* roses  I  just\spoke\of  turned  into  a  couple 
of  damasks." 

PATRIOTISM,  P.  124 

21  This  poem  was  read  to  the  convention  of  the  Delta  Kappa 
Epsilon  fraternity,  at  Carusi's  saloon.     Washington,  D.  C.,  1856. 

22  By  J.  R.  T. :  A  slight  liberty  has  been  taken  with  the  exposition 
of  the  Malt  re  de  Philosophic  in  Moliere's  Bourgeois  Gentilhomme,  who 
divides  written  composition  into  verse  and  prose,  not  into  poetry  and 
prose,  as  I  have  assumed.     "  Tout  ce  qui  nest  point  prose"  says  he, 
"of  n-rx,  </  tout  ce  qui  n'est  point  rers  est  prose;"   a  proposition  to 
which  I  can  hardly  accede,  in  the  terms  wherein  it  is  stated,  since 
many  modern  writers  have  given  us  examples  of  composition  which 
is  neither  the  one  nor  the  other. 

23  By  J.  R.  T. :    The  voluntary  errand  of  mercy  on  which  Miss 
Annie  M.  Andrews  of  Syracuse,  N.  Y.,  came  to  Norfolk  and  Ports 
mouth  during  the  prevalence  of  the  awful  pestilence  of  1854  in  those 
cities  should  long  be  held  in  grateful  remembrance  by  the  people  of 
Virginia,  and  well  entitles  her  to  be  enrolled  upon  that  honorable  list 
of  self-sacrificing  women  which  includes  the  names  of  Elizabeth  Fry 
and  Florence  Nightingale.     England  has  done  much  in  recognition  of 
the  services  of  the  latter — does  not  Virginia  owe  some  testimonial  for 
the  yet  higher,  because  more  perilous,  labors  of  Miss  Andrews  ? 

24  By  J.  R.  T.:  Mr.  Bryant,  in  one  of  the  loftiest  efforts  of  his 
genius,  has  finely  impersonated  Freedom  in  these  magnificent  lines — 

O  Freedom !   thou  art  not,  as  poets  dream, 

A  fair  young  girl,  with  light  and  delicate  limbs, 

And  wavy  tresses  gushing  from  the  cap 

With  which  the  Roman  master  crown'd  his  slave 

When  he  took  off  the  gyves.     A  bearded  man, 

Arm'd  to  the  teeth,  art  thou:  one  mailed  hand 

Grasps  the  broad  shield,  and  one  the  sword;  thy  brow, 

Glorious  in  beauty  though  it  be,  is  scarr'd 

With  tokens  of  old  wars. — The  Antiquity  of  Freedom. 

It  is  in  accordance  witli  the  striking  image  here  presented  that  1 
have  chosen  to  consider  the  goddess  of  our  liberty  as  the  daughter, 
rather  than  the  person  herself,  of  Freedom. 


242  NOTES 

25  By  J.  R.  T. :  To  such  as  have  read  Mr.  Tennyson's  Maud  this 
will  be  recognized  as  but  another  form  of 

The  cobwebs  woven  across  the  cannon's  throat 
Shall  shake  its  threaded  tears  in  the  wind  no  more. 

But  the  conceit  is,  indeed,  the  common  property  of  poets,  since  it 
may  be  traced  back  as  far  as  Simonides,  in  whose  Lines  on  Peace 
occurs  the  following  passage:  ev  Be  acSocpoSeiotat  xopxa^cv  alOav  dpaxvdtv 
laoi  xeXovrai — literally, 

And  in  the  iron-bound  handles  of  shields,  of  black  spiders 
The  web  exists. 

VIRGINIA,  P.  136 

26  This  poem  was  delivered  before  the  Virginia  Alpha  Beta  Kappa 
Society,  in  the  chapel  of  William  and  Mary  College,  Williamsburg, 
July  3,  1856. 

THE  JAMESTOWN  CELEBRATION,  1857,  P.  146 

27  By  J.  R.  T.:   It  is  due  to  Lieut.  Col.  R.  Milton  Gary,  the  officer 
in  command  of  the  1st  Regiment  of  Virginia  Volunteers,  encamped  on 
Jamestown  Island,  to  state  that  as  soon  as  he  heard  of  the  desecra 
tions   the   visitors  were  committing  in  the  old  graveyard  he  des 
patched  a  file  of  soldiers  to  protect  the  tombs  from  further  injury. 
The  credit  should  also  be  awarded  this  excellent  officer  of  having 
promptly  suppressed  the  gaming  which  had  been  commenced  by  the 
"fraternity  "  as  soon  as  the  company  arrived  upon  the  ground. 

28  By  J.  R.  T.:  The  Jamestown  Society  of  Washington,  D.  C., 
under  the  lead  of  their  president,  P.  R.  Fendall,  Esq.,  was  accom 
panied  by  the  venerable  George  Washington  Parke  Custis,  who  was 
the  object  of  curious  yet  most  respectful  attention  throughout  the 
day. 

29  By  J.  R.  T. :   The  editor  desires  to  be  understood  as  referring  here 
only  to  the  manner  of  Mr.  Tyler's  oration.     All  who  read  it  in  the 
foregoing  pages  of  the  present  number  of  The  Messenger  will  be  im 
pressed  with  its  appropriateness  and  value  as  a  fine  historic  com 
position. 

30  By  J.  R.  T. :   A  very  beautiful  display  of  fire-works  was  made 
from  the  deck  of  Mr.  Allen's  yacht,  the  "Breeze,"  during  the  evening, 
which  was  followed  up  by  a  handsome  pyrotechnic  performance  in 
the  camp. 


NOTES  243 

WASHINGTON,  P.  155 

11  This  ode  was  read  at  the  inauguration  of  the  equestrian  statue 
of  Washington  in  Richmond,  Va.,  February  22,  1858. 

THE  OLD  DOMINION  JULEP  BOWL,  P.  166 

*-  Tln-M  V»T>CS  were  read  at  an  informal  social  meeting  in  Rich 
mond  in  compliment  to  Mr.  James  just  before  his  departure  for  Ven 
ice,  in  1858. 

33  By  J.  R.  T.:   The  testimonial  presented  to  Mr.  James  on  this 
occasion.     It  was  of  silver  incribed  "Old  Dominion  Julep  Bowl" 
on  one  side,  and  on  the  other: 

To  G.  P.  R.  James, 
From  a  few  of  his  friends  in  Virginia. 

May  their  names, 

Familiar  to  his  ear  as  household  words, 
Be  in  this  flowing  cup  freshly  remembered. 

ROBERT  BURNS,  P.  172 

34  By  J.  R.  T. :   The  following  lines  on  Bums  were  written  for  a 
centennial  dinner,  given  in  New  York. 

VIRGINIA,  P.  181 

35  This  tribute  to  Virginia  was  read,  by  N.  H.  Campbell,  at  the 
first  anniversary  of  the  Old  Dominion  Society  of  New  York,  at  the 
dinner  at  the  Metropolitan  Hotel,  May  13,  1860.     The  author  was 
about  to  leave  Richmond  for  Augusta,  Ga.,  and  could  not  be  present 
at  the  banquet. 

POESY:   AN  ESSAY  IN  RHYME.  P.  185 

M  This  rhymed  essay  was  delivered  before  the  literary  societies  of 
Columbian  College,  Washington,  D.  C.,  June  28,  1859. 

"SiNG,  TENNYSON,  SING,"  P.  196 

17  In  May,  1859,  after  the  beginning  of  war  between  France,  Pied 
mont,  and  Austria,  and  when  England  feared  French  invasion,  Tenny 
son  sent  to  the  London  Times  the  poem  which  appears  in  his  collected 
works  under  the  title  Riflemen,  Form!  It  soon  made  the  rounds  in 


244  NOTES 

American  newspapers.     Thompson  printed  it  in  The  Southern  Literary 
Messenger,  and  along  with  it  this  skit. 

"ONCE  MORE  THE  ALUMNI,"  P.  197 

38  This  ode,  for  the  alumni  dinner  at  the  University  of  Virginia  on 
July  4,  1860,  was  composed  in  Augusta,  Ga.,  whither  Thompson  had 
gone  to  edit  The  Southern  Field  and  Fireside. 

39  It  has  not  been  possible  to  identify  all  of  the  "old  comrades"  to 
whom  Thompson  referred  in  these  lines.     "Old  Gess,"  in  II,  was  Dr. 
Gessner  Harrison,  who  was  Chairman  of  the  Faculty  and  professor 
of  ancient  languages  when  Thompson  entered  the  University.     "The 
late  Mr.  Speaker,"  in  XV,  was  James  L.  Orr,  afterwards  governor  of 
South  Carolina  and  minister  to  Russia.     "There's  a  Bishop,"  in 
XVII,  was  Henry  C.  Lay,  then  of  Maryland.     "We  have  Editors 
also,"  in  XIX,  refers  to  James  C.  Southall  of  the  Richmond  Enquirer. 
"The  eulogist  lately  of  Clay,"  in  XX,  was  B.  Johnson  Barbour  of 
Virginia  who  had  recently  (on  April  12,  1860)  delivered  the  address 
at  the  unveiling  of  the  Clay  statue  in  Capital  Square,  Richmond,  Va. 

UNIVERSITY  OF  VIRGINIA,  P.  209 

40  This  poem  was  read  before  the  Society  of  the  Alumni  of  the 
University  of  Virginia  July  1,  1869. 

THE  BARBER  BOY,  P.  218 

41  The  Barber  Boy  was  written  as  a  Christmas  address  to  be  offered 
by  the  subject  of  the  verses  in  his  pursuit  of  tips  from  the  patrons  of 
the  "dressing-room"  of  the  Exchange  Hotel,  Richmond,  Va.,  long 
notable  as  the  headquarters  of  Virginia  political  leaders. 

THE  KING  OF  TIPSY-LAND,  P.  224 

42  This  translation  of  B£ranger's  poem,  which  Thompson  published 
in  The  Southern  Literary  Messenger  in  May,  1849,  has  been  attributed 
to  him,  but  with  no  certain  proof  that  it  was  his  work.    A  diligent 
search  has  brought  to  light  many  renderings  of  Le  Roi  d'Yvetot,  but 
this  one  has  been  found  only  in  The  Messenger. 


INDEX  OF  POEMS 


"Ah,  Futile  the  Hope,"  106. 
Amelie  Louise  Rives,  59. 
Ashby,  6. 
Autumn,  227. 
Autumn  Lines,  100. 

Barber  Boy,  The,  218. 

Battle  Rainbow,  The,  11. 

Benedicite,  87. 

Brave,  The,  99. 

"Brightly,  with  the  Elfin  Train 

Attended,"  96. 
Burial  of  Latane,  The,  4. 

Carcassonne,  219. 
Coercion,  36. 

Dedication  Hymn,  54. 
Despondency,  229. 
Devil's  Delight,  The,  30. 
Dirge  for  the  Funeral  Solemnities 
of  Zachary  Taylor,  67. 

England's  Neutrality,  24. 

E.  V.  V.,  1859,  180/ 

Exile's  Sunset  Song,  The,  103. 

Farewell  to  Pope,  A,  43. 

Garret,  The,  221. 
General  J.  E.  B.  Stuart,  8. 
George  Wythe  Randolph,  206. 
Greek  Slave,  of  Powers,  The,  51. 

Hexameters  at  Jamestown,  175. 
Hour  of  Separation,  The,  231. 

Inebriate,  The,  228. 
In  Forma  Pauperis,  122. 
Invocation,  68. 


Jamestown     Celebration,     The, 

146. 

Jenny  Lind,  71. 
Joe  Johnston.     See  A  Word  with 

the  West,  33. 

King  of  Tipsy-Land,  The,  224. 

La  Morgue,  55. 

Lee  to  the  Rear,  1. 

Legend  of  Barber-y,  A,  119. 

L'Envoi,  98. 

Letter,  A,  92. 

Linden,  116. 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  William 

Henry  Harrison,  230. 
Local  Item,  A.    See  Miserrimus, 

202. 
Lou,  153. 

May  Day,  169. 
Miserrimus,  202. 
Motto,  The,  179. 
Music  in  Camp,  13. 
My  Murray,  108. 

Old  Abe's  Message,  21. 
Old  Books  to  Read,  75. 
Old  Dominion  Julep  Bowl,  The, 

166. 

Old  Friends  to  Love,  77. 
Old  Wine  to  Drink,  76. 
Old  Wood  to  Bum,  76. 
"Once  More  the  Alumni,"  197. 
On  to  Richmond,  16. 

Patriotism,  124. 
Paul  H.  Hayne,  145. 
Philip  Pendleton  Cooke,  60. 


245 


246 


INDEX 


Picture,  A,  118. 

Poesy:  An  Essay  in  Rhyme,  185. 
Postilion  of  Linz,  The,  114. 
Proposed   Sale   of   the   Natural 
Bridge,  61. 

Retrospect  of  1849,  A,  73. 
Retrospection,  230. 
Rhine,  The,  110. 
Richmond's    a    Hard    Road    to 

Travel,  45. 
Robert  Burns,  172. 

"Sing,  Tennyson,  Sing,"  196. 
Song,  165. 

Sonnets  to  Winter,  76. 
Souvenir  of  Zurich,  A,  112. 


,  86. 


To 

To  Bulwer,  81. 

To  Fanny,  233. 

To  Intemperance,  63. 

To  Jenny  Herself,  70. 


To  Mrs.  S.  P.  Q 

Marriage,  65. 
To  One  in  Affliction,  82. 


Her 


United  States  District  Court,  39. 
University  of  Virginia,  209. 
Unwritten  Music,  88. 

Verses  of  a  Collegiate  Historian, 

228. 

Violante,  84. 
Virginia,  136. 
Virginia  Fuit,  49. 
"Virginia,      in      Our      Flowing 

Bowls,"  181. 

Washington,  155. 

Webster,  90. 

Where?  223. 

William  H.  Seward,  40. 

Window-Panes  at  Brandon,  The, 

79. 
Word  with  the  West,  A,  33. 


GENERAL  INDEX 


Across  the  Atlantic,  \\\. 
Addums,  Mozis,  \\. 
Aldrich,  Thomas  Bailey,  xxi. 
Anthologies,  Southern,  xxii. 

Bagby,  George  W.,  xx. 
Baldwin,  Joseph  G.,  xxi. 
Barbour,  B.  Johnson,  244. 
Benjamin,  Park,  xxi. 
Beranger,  Pierre  Jean  de,  M-i. 
Bryant,  William  Cullen,  xxxvi, 

xlix,  1,  liv. 
Bulloch,  James  D.,  xi. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  xlii,  xliv. 
Carter,  Fitzhugh,  xlii. 
Confederate  colony  in  London, 

xxxix. 
Cooke,    John    Esten,    xvi,    xx, 

xxxvi,  xlviii. 

Cooke,  Philip  Pendleton,  xx. 
Cooper,  James  Fenimore,  xxiv. 

Davidson,  James  Wood,  li,  Iv. 

Emmet,  John  Patten,  x. 
English,  Thomas  Dunn,  xxi. 
Eustis,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  xlii. 

Fearn,  Walker,  xl. 

Godwin,  Parke,  xxxvi. 
Griswold,  Rufus  W.,  xxiii,  xxiv, 
xxxvii. 

Harrison,  Gessner,  xi,  244. 
Hayne,  Paul  Hamilton,  xxi,  lix. 
Henderson,  Mrs.  Daniel,  1,  li. 
Hope,  James  Barren,  XT. 
Hotze,  Henry,  xlv. 

Index,     The    (London),     xxviii, 
xxxv,  xxxviii,  xl,  xlii,  xlv,  xlvi. 

James,  G.  P.  R.,  xxi,  243. 

Kennedy,  John  Pendleton,  xviii, 

xxi,  xxv-xxvii,  xxxvi,  xlviii. 
Kraitsir,  Charles,  x. 


Lamartine,  Alphonse,  232. 
Latan6,  Captain,  237. 
Lawlrv,  Francis  Charles,  xliii. 
Lay,  Henry  C.,  244. 
Literature  in  the  South,  xvi,  xix, 

xx,  xxii,  xxxiii. 
Long,  George,  xi. 
Lowell,  James  Russell,  xxxvii. 
Lucas,  Daniel  Bedinger,  238. 

Macaulay,   Thomas   Babington, 

xxxix. 

Macfarland,  James  Edward,  xl. 
Marvel,  Ik,  xxi. 
Mason,  James  M.,  xxxix,  xlii. 
Maury,  Matthew  Fontaine,  xviii. 
McCabe,  W.  Gordon,  Iviii. 
Minor,  Benjamin  B.,  xviii,  Iv. 
Mitchell,  Donald  G.,  xxi. 

Old  Dominion  Society  of  Ne\* 

York,  243. 
Orr,  James  L.,  244. 

Poe,  Edgar  Allan,  xi,  xiv,  xviii, 

xxiv,  xxxiii,  xxxvii. 
Pomponnette,  233. 
Post,  New  York  Evening,  xxxv, 

xlix,  1,  liv. 
Powers,  Pike,  xi. 
Preston,  Margaret  J.,  xx. 

Randolph,  George  W.,  xliii,  206. 
Richmond,  Va.,  social  life  in  the 

'50s    and    '60s;     beleaguered, 

xvi,  xxix. 
Richmond    Record,    xxviii,    xxx, 

xxxv. 
Roger  Boniemps,  231. 

Seddon,  James  A.,  xiii. 

Simms,  W.  Gilmore,  xxi,  xxiv, 

xxix,  xxxvi. 

Southern  Amaranth,  xxii. 
Southern  Field  and  Fireside,  xxv, 

\\vii,  xxxv,  xlviii. 


247 


248 


INDEX 


Southern  Illustrated  News,  xxviii. 

Southern  Literary  Messenger,  ac 
quired  by  Thompson;  its  edi 
tors,  xviii;  its  publishers;  a 
medium  of  Southern  senti 
ment,  xix;  its  competitors, 
xxii;  in  distress,  xxiv,  xxv; 
Thompson  resigns  editorship, 
xxvii,  xxxiv. 

Southern  Lyre,  233. 

Southern  Poems  of  the  War,  xxii. 

Southern  writers,  xv,  xix,  xx-xxii. 

Stanard,  Mrs.,  xvii,  xlviii. 

Stedman,  Edmund  Clarence, 
xxxv. 

Stockton,  Frank  R.,  xxi. 

Stoddard,  Richard  H.,  Iviii. 

Stowe  epigram,  230. 

Stuart,  J.  E.  B.,  238. 

Sylvester,  J.  J.,  xi. 

Talley,  Susan  Archer,  xx. 

Tennyson,  Alfred,  xlii,  xliv,  243. 

Thompson,  John  R.,  ancestry 
and  birth;  boyhood  homes,  ix; 
enters  University  of  Virginia; 
his  professors,  x;  his  college 
verse,  xii,  225;  graduates  in 
law,  University  odes,  xiii; 
opens  law  office,  xv;  poet  of 
occasion,  xvii;  acquires  South 
ern  Literary  Messenger,  xviii; 
encouragement  of  new  writers, 
xxi;  as  a  magazinist,  xxiii; 
letters  to  Kennedy,  xxv- 
xxvii;  candidate  for  librarian 
of  Peabody  Institute,  xxv;  re 
signs  editorship  of  the  South 
ern  Literary  Messenger;  com 
plimentary  dinner;  Richmond 
friends;  leaves  Richmond;  in 
Augusta,  xxvi;  editor  of  the 
Southern  Field  and  Fireside, 
xxv;  ill-health,  xxvii-xxix; 
invited  to  join  the  staff  of  the 
Baltimore  American ;  Assis 


tant  Secretary  of  the  Common 
wealth;  editor  of  the  Rich 
mond  Record;  editor  of  the 
Southern  Illustrated  News, 
xxviii;  correspondent  of  the 
London  Index,  xxvii;  war 
poems,  xxix;  leaves  for  Europe; 
runs  blockade;  attempts  to 
publish  his  and  Timrod's 
poems,  xxx ;  his  translations, 
xxxi;  as  an  editor,  xxxiv- 
xxx vii;  as  a  critic,  xxxvi;  his 
relations  with  Poe,  xxxvii;  in 
London,  xxxviii,  xlvi;  visits 
Scotland  and  Ireland,  xl;  his 
London  friends,  xlii,  xliii;  in 
Paris,  xliii;  his  Diary,  xlv; 
writes  von  Borcke's  Memoirs 
of  the  Confederate  War;  re 
turns  to  Virginia,  xlvi;  no  em 
ployment;  lectures;  in  New 
York,  xlvii,  xlviii;  on  the  Al 
bion,  xlviii;  literary  editor  of 
the  Evening  Post,  xlix;  in 
Nassau  and  Cuba;  in  Colo 
rado;  back  in  New  York,  1; 
Mrs.  Henderson's  kindness; 
his  death;  funeral,  in  New 
York,  li;  distinguished  persons 
present;  funeral,  in  Richmond, 
liii;  estimates  and  tributes, 
xxxi,  liv-lix;  his  literary  re 
mains;  his  literary  executor, 
Iviii. 

Thompsoniana,  fugitive,  230. 

Ticknor,  F.  O.,  xxi. 

Timrod,  Henry,  xxx,  xxxiii,  lix. 

Tucker,  Henry  St.  George,  xiii. 

Tuckerman,  Henry  T.,  xxi. 

University    of    Virginia,    x,    xi, 
xiii,  xiv. 

War  Poetry  of  the  South,  xxii. 
Whig,  the  Richmond,  xviii. 
White,  Thomas  W.,  xviii. 
Willis,  Nathaniel  P.,  xxxvii. 


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